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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007840">It's All About The Delivery</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allheroeswearhats/pseuds/Allheroeswearhats'>Allheroeswearhats</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Universe, England pops up from chapter 6, Gen, Hetalia Kink Meme, Nationverse, Other characters pop up eventually, PM's having a rough day, Slice of Life, The PM just wants to do his job, Who's this crazy kid, canada who, nation reveal, real life nation problems</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:21:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,036</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allheroeswearhats/pseuds/Allheroeswearhats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Prime Minister of Canada is already in love with his job. Everyone seems so nice and friendly and he can't wait to get started trying to do some good. Shame there's that really weird kid who thinks he's Canada.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="Standard">The newly sworn in Prime Minister of Canada was finally, blissfully, alone. Ever since he found out that his party had won the election, thereby meaning that <em>he</em> had won the election, he'd been constantly surrounded by people. For the most part it was fellow party members and the press but on the odd chances he'd had to escape those it was then the time of family or friends or whoever the hell who claimed to know him from somewhere and sometime wishing him well and treating him to drinks and food.</p><p class="Standard">Not that he minded the latter ones, of course. But he'd become so swept up in the predictable euphoria and action that what had just happened hadn't quite sunken in yet. He had won the general election. He'd <em>won</em>. He was Prime Minister; the guy in control, the one in the big chair.</p><p class="Standard">Leaning against the wall in his office he let out a shaky breath and ran a trembling hand through his hair, allowing a smile of disbelief to show for the first time. The front of confidence and professionalism he'd been wearing for the past few days which a politician needed to have slipped so dramatically that he honestly felt as though he could start jumping about the room and cheering with his huge child-like grin plastered on his face.</p><p class="Standard">But he restrained himself to a small mini fist-pump before patting his cheeks, just to make sure he still wasn't dreaming, and then crossing the room to the desk in the centre.</p><p class="Standard">'This is my chair.' He said to himself, quietly, with a big smile that he finally managed to smooth down into a politician's smirk. He eased himself into the chair, flicked his wrists to pull his sleeves up and drew himself to the desk before clasping his hands together and resting them on the wood, bouncing them slightly. 'I am the Prime Minister of Canada.'</p><p class="Standard">Shaking his head with a chuckle, he reached forwards and fiddled with the expensive pen holder in front of him, filled with pens that had signed laws, written treaties and God knows what else. 'I wonder how long it'll take for saying that to get old.'</p><p class="Standard">'Oh, usually it lasts about a few weeks.'</p><p class="Standard">The newly instated PM gave a very undignified squawk and jerked his hands in surprise, fumbling with the pen holder to stop it toppling to the floor. Snapping his head in the direction of the voice, he found a young man with blond hair and glasses awkwardly stood to the right in the middle of the room, a patient smile on his face.</p><p class="Standard">'Wh- who ar-, how long have you been here?'</p><p class="Standard">The young man waved his hand, as if dismissing what he'd said. 'Oh, don't worry, everyone does that. I'm quite quiet when I want to be. But your happiness is nothing to be ashamed of, eh? It's a big deal to win the election!'</p><p class="Standard">The PM blinked. Finally, his brain caught up with him and he drew himself upright in his chair., clasping his hands together. 'I would like you to tell me who you are and what you are doing in my office.' Distantly he could hear himself say <em>my office</em> and catalogued the moment to memory to think about more later.</p><p class="Standard">'Oh!' The young man shook himself and stepped forward, hand outstretched. 'So sorry, it completely slipped my mind.'</p><p class="Standard">Rising quickly the PM got out from behind the desk and met him, shaking his hand cautiously.</p><p class="Standard">'My name is Matthew Williams, usually, and I work closely with-'</p><p class="Standard">'Ah yes!' The PM interrupted, appraising him, 'I've seen you around here before, you're like the aide to the PM, aren't you?'</p><p class="Standard">'We- well <em>yes</em>, I suppose but you se-'</p><p class="Standard">'You're rather younger than I was expecting, I must say! What, early twenties?'</p><p class="Standard">'Ah, no, I mean, kind of, but-'</p><p class="Standard">'Good to meet you Mr Williams! It would have been nice to have been introduced to you more formally; I hope you don't make a habit of walking in here without knocking.' The PM cautioned. If they were going to be working closely together then some ground rules should be laid out now, before this sort of thing continued.</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams frowned slightly, 'I <em>did</em> knock, but you see, I'm not really your aide.' He drew himself up straighter and the PM could now see that he was actually rather tall, a good half foot taller than himself.</p><p class="Standard">'I'm afraid I don't have as much practise of doing this as some of the others, there's only been 29 of you, you see, and most of those knew Arthur before me so it didn't really count because they understood the concept already, so I apologise for the delivery but,' He broke off and took a deep breath before fixing the PM with an oddly serious look for such a young man, 'I'm the physical representative of the nation of Canada; pleased to make your acquaintance.'</p><p class="Standard">For a few very painful seconds, no one said anything. The longer the silence went on the thicker it became and the more uncomfortable Mr Williams looked, his mouth pursed tighter and his eyebrow twitched but he determinedly did not break eye contact.</p><p class="Standard">Eventually, the PM spared him and broke first, looking quickly about the room for cameras. They wouldn't try to do something like this for the TV on his first official day, surely? Why him, why was social media now such an influence? How long had people been watching him, did they see the fist-pump, oh God.</p><p class="Standard">Seeing nothing that looked anything like a camera or a microphone (though he knew from his teenage son that nowadays this hardly mattered), he slowly turned back to Mr Williams, who was watching him worriedly. 'Erm Mr, Williams, was it?' The young man nodded with a jerky bob of his head. 'I uh, I don't really see the joke, I'm afraid.'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it again, looking very unsure of himself. He then took a breath, and looked back up before holding the PM's gaze unflinchingly. 'I am the avatar, personification, or human representative of this nation.' Despite the slight quaver in his voice, there was a steely tone behind it, something that spoke of strength and conviction. 'I am the land, the people and the culture. I am the economy, the industry and the history of this country; I am the soul of the people of Canada from British Columbia to Nova Scotia.'</p><p class="Standard">Again, a silence fell between them, heavy and awkward. The PM didn't really know how to handle this, if he were honest; the man in front of him looked deadly serious and was watching him carefully, waiting for a reaction.</p><p class="Standard">Taking a deep breath in through his nose, the PM released it quickly and nodded. 'Okay. Okay. So.'</p><p class="Standard">He clapped his hands together loudly and Mr Williams started a little at the unexpected noise. 'I have a lot of work to do, Mr Williams.' He looked at the young man and raised his eyebrows. 'I trust that you'll let me know if anything comes up?'</p><p class="Standard">The other man's shoulders sank, making him look as though he had deflated slightly, but he nodded despondently. 'Of course... I'll be just outside, in the office on the left.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM nodded at him and turned to sit back behind the desk, thus dismissing the young man from the room.</p><p class="Standard">Taking the hint, Mr Williams turned and walked to the door but stopped, hand on the doorknob. He looked back and opened his mouth as if to say something else, but when he noticed that the PM wasn't paying attention, he shut it again with a snap and left the room noiselessly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>DeAnon from the kink meme that I wrote back in 2017 (Jesus, where has time gone? What on earth am I even doing).</p><p>I didn't actually have any specific politicians or people in mind for this, I'm afraid, so feel free to think of whomever you want for the roles. I'll just be calling Canada's boss PM or Prime Minister to keep this easy.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>Heroes</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="Standard">After the aide had left the room, the PM finally released the breath he'd been holding and slumped back in his chair. Well, that was... well now that just wouldn't do.</p><p class="Standard">Furrowing his brow, he twisted in his chair to stare out of the window and gaze upon the parts of Ottawa that he could see from Parliament Hill before swinging his gaze across the river to Gatineau, Quebec. Although he knew he was probably being a bit harsh, the young aide would have to go; he was obviously far too young and immature to be involved in this sort of work and if he wasn't joking, if he did really <em>believe,</em> then-</p><p class="Standard">The PM shook his head. No, there was no way the aide could actually truly believe that he represented Canada, of all things. For one, he would never had got the job in the first place, the mental fortitude needed in this line of work was paramount and the PM couldn't see his predecessor hiring the boy if he wasn't mentally capable. So then, this was either a recent delusion (which seemed very unlikely) or a joke on his behalf. Either way, he didn't appreciate that kind of behaviour. He could take a joke certainly, but there was a time and a place and moreover a <em>topic</em> and Mr Williams had failed in all regards for this to be acceptable, especially for when meeting your new employer.</p><p class="Standard">He was so young... The PM crossed his arms and drummed his fingers on his forearm. Come to think of it, he'd seen Mr Williams about for quite a few years now, ever since he began running his particular party which was three years ago at <em>least</em>; just how old was this boy?</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams must be good at what he did, he conceded to himself, to get a job this high up and that young. Sadly, however, the PM knew it wasn't going to work, he had an aide already and liked the way they ran things, so finding Mr William's replacement wasn't going to be too difficult. The way to go about this issue would be uncomfortable, to say the least. It was normal to shuffle your cabinet about when you took charge, but dismissing the other members of staff was a bit different; could he change the cleaning staff, for example? He might be the leader of the country, but he didn't think that made him the be all and end all of the power pyramid.</p><p class="Standard">Still, Mr Williams was his aide and thus was beholden to him, surely the decision to hire or fire a personal assistant would be his decision alone. Feeling a little bit better about the whole situation, the PM pulled open a draw, found the official paperwork he needed to look over before meeting the Royal Family in London in a few weeks, and got to work.</p><p class="Standard">(Not before giving the room a quick check for cameras and microphones, of course.)</p><hr/><p class="Standard">Before he went home that evening, the PM went to chase up the head of HR.</p><p class="Standard">He had been studiously avoiding Mr Williams all day who, despite not actively coming to talk to him or coming into his office, had been hovering about his peripheral vision ever since their little chat earlier on; talking to the secretary, talking to the deputy PM, running paperwork back and forth and generally making himself known.</p><p class="Standard">Despite wondering what on earth he was working on, considering he himself had given him no work, the PM tried to pay him no attention and had resolutely pushed his little issue from his mind until he got the chance to talk to their Human Resources department. Slipping out of his office and across the foyer, he made his way to the HR section of the building, keeping an eye out for wayward young aides as he went.</p><p class="Standard">As he approached, the young secretary smiled brightly and stood up to shake his hand. 'Ah, Prime Minister! It's so good to meet you, my name is Étienne.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM smiled and went through the necessary social obligations, biding his time patiently before cutting to the chase, but not before taking note of the man's accent and switching to French. 'Is Mrs Andrews available to speak with me? She is the one in charge of this department and all employees, is she not?'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne nodded and said sheepishly, 'Yes, that she is. Usually, you do have to let her know that you plan on speaking with her though, she's usually pretty busy.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM winced. 'I feared as much.' He gave a low chuckle and shot Étienne an apologetic smile. 'I hope she can forgive me, I'm not quite up to date with how this particular floor works.'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne frowned. 'Oh, that's odd, has Mr Williams not briefed you properly yet? He's usually quite good at that.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. 'I've er- I've not really had much time with Mr Williams. I'm sure I can catch him tomorrow.'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne shook his head in confusion. 'No, that's so out of character for him. He said he was going to-’ Suddenly his eyes whipped to the PM's. 'He did... he did <em>tell</em> you, didn't he?'</p><p class="Standard">'Tell me what?'</p><p class="Standard">'You know,’ Étienne’s dropped his voice to a whisper, 'that's he's Canada?'</p><p class="Standard">For a third time that strange, confusing day, the PM was held in a very heavy, stunned silence with a guy he had only just met. This time, however, he swiftly broke his way free by coughing once into his fist. 'I'm sorry?'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne looked rather panicked. 'Oh God, oh no, he hasn't told you has he; wait here while I call him over, if you would please just give me a minute-'</p><p class="Standard">'Wait, wait, hold on a second.'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne paused in the middle of punching numbers into the phone by his elbow on his desk to look at him, stricken.</p><p class="Standard">'He uh, well he did. Tell me, that is.'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne slumped with relief into his chair. 'Oh, thank God. He's not usually easy to rile up, you know, but I bet he wouldn't have been happy with me if I had told you instead, I mean-.'</p><p class="Standard">'Étienne, can you please let Mrs Andrews know that I am waiting to speak to her.' The PM cut him off, no longer feeling impolite by doing so. He was starting to get the feeling that this entire floor was a run a little bit more informally than he was used to, which he was generally okay with. But when trying to get things done, he could foresee this becoming a problem.</p><p class="Standard">Catching himself at the curt tone, Étienne nodded and did so, mumbling to himself, still relieved. Holding the phone to his ear, he avoided the PM's gaze as he waited. After a few seconds he glanced up and looked to him apologetically. 'I'm very sorry Prime Minister, it seems as though she's already gone home. But I'll pencil you in first thing tomorrow, if you're free?'</p><p class="Standard">The PM tutted in irritation. 'I don't know, I forgot to check.' He cupped his chin in his thumb and forefinger and tapped it thoughtfully. 'Just put me down anyway, if I'm not I can let you know.'</p><p class="Standard">Étienne did as he was instructed and, once that was seen to, the PM made his way back to his office in slightly better spirits than a few minutes ago. It was a joke then, a whole floor sized joke that everyone was in on except him. Well fine, okay, he should have expected this, really. After all, he'd played some 'haze the new guy' pranks himself and he must admit that the level of seriousness people were putting into this was admirable. Étienne hadn't let anything slip, even for a moment, and nor had Mr Williams.</p><p class="Standard">Closing the door to his office, he sighed. Maybe he was being too harsh, Mr Williams was just a young man at the end of the day, he was probably having a bit of fun and trying to see what the limits with his new boss were. Or, perhaps the old PM had encouraged that sort of informality and behaviour; it was wrong to judge the boy so harshly about a joke when he hadn't actually done anything wrong. Especially as he wasn't the only one doing it; for all he knew, Mr Williams could have been forced to accept the role of 'Canada' but wasn't actually the joke master himself. Étienne <em>did</em> seem a bit mischievous and Mr Williams had seemed very uncomfortable with his declaration earlier.</p><p class="Standard">All of a sudden, the PM felt an odd sort of protectiveness curl its way into his belly at the thought of Mr Williams being taken advantage of and made a vow to himself to act a bit nicer to the boy come tomorrow.</p><p class="Standard">Making his way over to his desk, he caught sight of his diary open and filled in on his desk with a detailed itinerary of all his upcoming events for tomorrow and the coming week. There was also a stack of paperwork he needed to look over, as well as whom it was from and a brief summary of what it was. Mr Williams had signed his name underneath and the PM smiled fondly at the sight.</p><p class="Standard">There we go, the boy obviously knew what he was doing; if the PM felt that their personalities were a match, he could stay and the PM's old aide would be informed of the change with enough time to allow them to find something new.</p><p class="Standard">Picking up the phone, the PM called Étienne and cancelled his meeting with the head of HR.</p><hr/><p class="Standard">The next morning, thanks to the diary Mr Williams had filled in for him, the PM knew that he had a meeting with the other party leaders at noon and then at three pm there was a cabinet meeting where he'd need to talk to and designate, or keep, the main roles of government. Oddly enough, until the noon meeting, he was blissfully free.</p><p class="Standard">Despite this, the PM dutifully arrived at 8am and found Mr Williams waiting for him, once more inside his office.</p><p class="Standard">Deciding to overlook this slight of politeness on his aide's part, he greeted him cordially. 'Mr Williams, I trust you had a good evening?'</p><p class="Standard">The young man smiled. 'I did, thank you, I hope you did too.'</p><p class="Standard">Obligatory politeness over and done with the PM stared at Mr Williams, questioningly. 'Is there something I can help you with?'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams brightened. 'Yes, I'd like you to take a look at these documents, if you wouldn't mind.'</p><p class="Standard">He held a hand outstretch which contained a beige looking file; stained with age and slightly dog-eared it was clearly old but otherwise innocuous. Taking it carefully, the PM flipped it open and skim read a few lines before looking back up at the man in front of him,</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams, this is-'</p><p class="Standard">'Please,' Mr Williams held up a hand and smiled gently, 'call me Canada. It's only polite, you see, now that you know.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM frowned. '<em>Mr Williams</em>, what is this supposed to be?'</p><p class="Standard">Apart from drawing his mouth together tighter, as if in irritation or frustration, Mr William's kind expression didn't change. 'It is the official document containing all you need to know about my ah...existence. Only official information, of course. Nothing personal.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM's eyes flicked back to the file in his hand. It contained documents of heavy looking, sometimes handwritten, texts detailing the history and classification of the 'physical national spirit', also known as Matthew Williams, and information about his job role within and relating to the government. There were numerous old photos tucked between fragile feeling pages of Mr Williams alone, and some with other people, staring out at him from within the fading sepia tones. In some, he was dressed in historical dress of the late 1800s and in other, more sleek, coloured, and modern ones, the young man before him was dressed in suits or jeans, with a smile or a frown.</p><p class="Standard">Picking out a photo of what seemed to be Mr Williams dressed in a WWII uniform and leaning against an old jeep, the PM looked back up and narrowed his eyes. 'Mr Williams, what is this?'</p><p class="Standard">Williams raised his eyebrow, looking unsure. 'It's proof, if you want to look at it that way. Of, uh- well, me.'</p><p class="Standard">'… Proof.'</p><p class="Standard">Williams nodded. 'Yes, that I'm Canada. But don't worry though!' he suddenly interjected, 'you're not the only one who's had trouble. This is just like a helpful guide that everyone needs to read anyway, but if you have trouble believing then this sometimes helps.'</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams-'</p><p class="Standard">'Canada, please. But I'll leave you to have a good read through that, if you have any questions once you're don-'</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams, do you really expect me to believe that you are a country.' The PM cut him off in a voice that brokered no argument. 'Do you really think that I would read this,' he shut the folder and flapped it gingerly to make his point, 'and suddenly agree to the delusion that you're actually 150 years old?'</p><p class="Standard">'I'm in my three hundreds, at least, actually, because I was about when France first-'</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams, I am going to put a stop to you right there and tell you right now- I'm not going to fall for this.'</p><p class="Standard">Williams blinked owlishly behind his large glasses. 'Um...'</p><p class="Standard">'I must commend you,' the PM continued, 'these Photoshops are very good, truly, and I'll admit to having no idea how you've managed to age these papers so well, but I have to tell you that I have a 15-year-old son and tricks like this are not going to work on me.'</p><p class="Standard">Williams made a weak attempt to take the file from him, but the PM brought it back down to rest by his side. 'Now that I've called you out on your little trick, I would appreciate it if you could give it up and get back to some serious work; don't worry, I'll talk to Étienne as well. If you have enough time to produce <em>these</em> of such a high calibre,' he waved the folder again and Mr Williams watched its flapping with fearful eyes, 'then I expect the same quality into the work needed to be done here. Are we understood?'</p><p class="Standard">Taking his eyes reluctantly off the folder in his hands, Williams looked up at him and worried his lip. 'I'm afraid that this is no joke, Sir.'</p><p class="Standard">'Excuse me?'</p><p class="Standard">'I said,' once again, Mr Williams drew himself up to his full height and fixed the PM with a gaze too serious and aged for his years, 'that this is no joke. I am your nation, the nation of Canada, and in your hands, you hold real, <em>official</em> documentation about me and my role here with you.'</p><p class="Standard">Thrusting the folder forward into Mr Williams' chest, the PM said coldly, 'Thank you Mr Williams, that will be all for today.'</p><p class="Standard">Tenderly cradling the folder away from his chest and into his arms, Mr Williams looked up at him disappointedly. 'Mr Prime Minister-'</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams, that will be <em>all.</em>' With that, the PM turned around and faced the window. He didn't turn back around until he heard the click of the door which told him that the young man had left.</p><hr/><p class="Standard">A few hours after Mr Williams had left the room, and after spending all of that time working on menial paperwork about budget proposals and trying not to think about him, the new PM of Canada had finally come to the conclusion that this wasn't going to work and that Mr Williams would have to be let go. Oddly enough, the PM didn't have any bad feelings about his character or his personality, or anything against Mr Williams personally at all, but the boy obviously either needed help or wasn't taking his job seriously, this was something the PM found just as concerning.</p><p class="Standard">He didn't know whether the boy really did have some sort of mental illness, but to play along with this sort of behaviour for so long was a sign of frivolity the PM didn't really want to work with; after being called out on the joke it was just rudeness to continue on, did Mr Williams think he was stupid? He did seem so convinced that he <em>was</em> actually a country though... No no, let's not go down that rabbit hole.</p><p class="Standard">The PM sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Poor boy, he'd have to tread lightly about this. For all the PM knew, he could very well have a mental illness and be perfectly capable of doing his job. Maybe this was one of his ticks, or something. Symptoms? Ah jeeze, staying politically correct was hard these days, but he defiantly didn't want to offend the kid if this 'Canada' business was due to something he couldn't help. But then, if this was a symptom of a mental illness then surely someone would have prepared him for it? Wait wait, what if it was some sort of non-disclosure, confidential matter that was up to Mr Williams' discretion to share?</p><p class="Standard">Suddenly he leant back in his chair and frowned upon realising that if believing he was the immortal representation country was a symptom of medical illness for Mr Williams, why on earth was Étienne the HR secretary playing along? Glancing towards the door as he contemplated how to tackle this rather odd problem, the PM's eyes were caught by a photograph on the floor in the middle of the room, presumably dropped from Mr Williams' folder.</p><p class="Standard">Getting up, curious despite himself, the PM crossed the room and picked it up, feeling the age of the paper before turning it over. It was a damn good copy, he must say.</p><p class="Standard">This one was a photo of a painting. In it, Mr Williams was easily recognisable as a young boy dressed in period clothing. He was leaning stiffly against a high-backed chair, upon which a young-looking man sat looking directly out from the canvas, a slight smile on his face which could either be kind or haughty. On the other side of the chair was another boy, similar looking to Williams but with different hair and ever so slightly different features. The other boy looked as though he was barely containing himself from running off in excitement, whereas the child lookalike of Mr Williams looked as though he was trying too hard to be a serious as the man seated in the chair. The boys were quite obviously related, and the young man seated seemed to share some sort of resemblance to them both as well, although certainly not as strong.</p><p class="Standard">The PM tutted and thumbed the photo. To go to such great lengths, first to produce or Photoshop the painting, then to de-age himself so that his face fit in with the painting style,<em> then</em> to make the other boy look similar; God it didn't bear thinking about how many hours this took. Did both Étienne and Mr Williams do this to fool him together as a joke? Or was this Étienne egging along a poor sufferer of a hallucinatory mental illness? Either way, he defiantly needed to talk to the head of HR.</p><hr/><p class="Standard">He rang the head of HR himself, deciding to bypass formalities, and Étienne, to get to the bottom of this faster and in the least painful way possible. Luckily for him, Mrs Andrews was free, having not filled their original meeting time with anything else, and so at five to eleven the PM slipped out of his office and went to make his way to meet with her. As he left his room and entered the main lobby, he caught the sound of Mr Williams talking to someone from inside his own office. He really didn't mean to eavesdrop, but he found himself glued to the floor as he became hooked into the conversation against his will.</p><p class="Standard">'I've tried.' Mr Williams sounded exasperated. 'I've had some take a while before but no one's ever said anything about the photos, you know?'</p><p class="Standard">There was a pause as Mr Williams listened to the response.</p><p class="Standard">'Yeah, I guess. And photo editing stuff didn't exist when I last had this happen, so there was instant belief; you remember that thing with dad's people and the faeries?'* He laughed lightly. The door to his room was only ajar slightly and Mr Williams had such a soft voice, but despite this the PM could hear everything he said, crystal clear.</p><p class="Standard">'Well, before then it- yeah. I didn't need to do anything as it went through him. But it's not that bad, you've had it too, eh? I've just had less practice.'</p><p class="Standard">Another pause, before Mr Williams replied again, more seriously. 'It'll be done before the state visit to the UK, I'm sure. Man, imagine how that'd go, if not.' He sighed heavily. 'No Al, I won't film it, take a guess as to how that'd g- no I'm not making it into a TikTok**! What are you, 12?'</p><p class="Standard">The PM heard a loud tut. 'I'd better go, I actually <em>work </em>you know. Hint hint? Mmm, yeah, whatever. Love you too; bye.'</p><p class="Standard">Shaking himself out of his stupor, the PM forced himself to walk forwards and turn the corner, coming quickly to the foyer and nodding politely in Étienne's direction before stepping up to Mrs Andrews' door and rapping gently.</p><p class="Standard">Upon hearing the bright 'come in', he opened the door and stepped inside to find Mrs Andrews stood waiting for him. She gave him a warm smile and extended her hand, which he shook gratefully and took the comfortable looking chair she offered to him.</p><p class="Standard">'How can I help you, Prime Minister?' She said. She sat only once he himself did so, resting thick forearms on her desk to look at him with all of her attention.</p><p class="Standard">'This will only be brief today, sadly; I'm here to enquire about a certain member of staff and any changes I could or am allowed to make regarding staff members on this floor.'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews raised an overly plucked eyebrow. 'And who might the member of staff in question be, Sir?'</p><p class="Standard">'It's the aide who worked for my predecessor, Mr Williams.'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews' mouth gave a small twitch. 'And what would you like to know about him, Prime Minister?'</p><p class="Standard">'I'm sorry for my language on this matter, but is there anything I should know about him, before I get into what I want to say?'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews sucked on her lips and looked thoughtful. 'Well, there are rather a lot of things you should know about him.'</p><p class="Standard">'I mean, in a medical sense. Mental health, more specifically. Is there anything, ah, wrong, with him?'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews titled her head slightly and answered in a slightly cooler tone, 'there is nothing mentally wrong with Mr Williams, Mr Prime Minister, no.'</p><p class="Standard">Keeping his face straight, the PM answered lightly, 'Good to know, thank you. I don't really know the boy too well, but I prefer the working relationship I had with my original personal aide; I don't know how much wiggle room there is in terms of time periods but when is the earliest I can let him go?'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews opened her mouth slightly but then snapped it back shut. 'Mr Williams is not your personal assistant,’ she replied, delicately, 'so I'm afraid you cannot let him go. In fact, your previous aide Judy is due to start again with you on Thursday.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM frowned. 'What do you mean he's not... what is his job role then?'</p><p class="Standard">'He is Canada.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM spluttered. 'I'm- I'm sorry?'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews nodded sagely. 'The human representation of Canada, our national avatar.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM shook his head in bewilderment. He couldn't believe what he was hearing and really had no idea how to respond in a way that wouldn't lose him votes in the next General Election. Rage and displays of emotional outbursts would surely garner him no favours.</p><p class="Standard">'Mrs Andrews,' he eventually started to say after a deep breath of stabilising calm, weakly tugging on his tie to loosen it, 'Mrs Andrews, whilst I greatly admire the lengths this team seem to be going to uphold and maintain this charade, I would appreciate if we could talk about this matter seriously.'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews nodded at him sympathetically, and pushed a tissue box across the desk towards him. 'I'm afraid that this is no joke, Sir.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM eyed the box mutely before he stared back at her, narrowing his eyes as she earnestly met his gaze. 'You're being serious.'</p><p class="Standard">Mrs Andrews bobbed her head to the side. 'I'm sorry to tell you, Sir, but this isn't a joke.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM looked to the ceiling and sucked on his teeth. 'Right.' He slapped his hands on his knees and stood quickly, causing Mrs Andrews to lean away from him in surprise. 'Right.' He reached the door and grasped the handle before turning back to look at the stunned head of HR. 'You're either all crazy, or you seem to think that I am.'</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Prime Minister-'</p><p class="Standard">The PM held up a hand to silence her and shook his head. 'I wish to say now, I want this prank to stop. Immediately. I do not appreciate being the butt of everyone's joke, especially after I've twigged and no one's easing up. I don't wish to make a bad first impression, but let's not discuss this issue again.'</p><p class="Standard">With that, he swung the door open and walked out, stepping into the main foyer again and turning to walk back in the direction of his office. Rather than aim for his door straight away, however, he veered off and strode up to Mr Williams' office and knocked briskly before letting himself inside as soon as he heard the quiet 'enter'.</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams was in the process of getting up to greet him, but the PM didn't let him make it that far.</p><p class="Standard">'Mr Williams I'm sorry to tell you this but I don't feel as though our working relationship will improve; I'm giving you your notice and I'd like you to find other employment elsewhere as soon as you are able.'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams made to say something, looking confused, but the PM swiftly cut him off. 'It is nothing personal, I can assure you; I can see that you're a hard worker and you're well liked here and I do like you, but I think you'd be better served elsewhere in the government and I'm more than happy to help you in any way you need.'</p><p class="Standard">Now finally stood, Mr Williams forced himself to get a word in edgeways. 'Prime Minister, I'm not your personal aide, I am Canada.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM opened his mouth, but Mr Williams kept talking and stopped his attempt, voice raised slightly above the usual for speech. 'Furthermore, I'm very sorry to tell you but whether or not you believe me, it is true and I do not work for you.'</p><p class="Standard">Deciding to focus on the easiest thing to digest for now, the PM said stiffly, 'Who <em>do</em> you work for?'</p><p class="Standard">Tilting his head a little higher, the young man answered with a touch of pride. 'I work for no one, I am independent. I'm afraid I work with you, not for you; all the information about myself and my role is in that folder I gave you.' Mr Williams shot him a concerned smile. 'I appreciate that this must be difficult, but you're not going to find anyone here who will give you a different answer. Aside from this floor no one knows, so I'd say it's not a good idea to go sharing this information about as I don't see anyone believing you.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM tutted and threw his arm out to gesture to the small gaggle of people in the foyer behind him who were doing their best to listen to what was going on as discreetly as possible whilst simultaneously inching closer to the door. 'And you think anyone here truly believes it?'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams smile grew strangely sly. 'Yes. Everyone but you.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM scowled at him. 'Mr Williams, I hoped it wouldn't turn out this way; don't make me force my hand.'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams raised an eyebrow. 'Not to be arrogant, Sir, but I am your hand.'</p><p class="Standard">'What?' the PM snapped, thrown off track.</p><p class="Standard">'You won't find anyone in this building, or anywhere else, who can make me leave if I don't want to. Sorry about that, but I'm afraid you're going to have to accept that that's how it is.'</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams looked at the clock on his wall. 'Now, I remember that you've got a meeting now, eh? I need to go to that too; I'll meet you there.'</p><p class="Standard">With that, he walked past the PM and slipped smoothly out of the room.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AN:<br/>Poor PM, he's just very confused. </p><p>I've always been annoyed by fics that just have people either blindly accept a nation reveal, or have characters try to play it cool or jokey. But really? I'd be pissed off. Like, how dare, are you all laughing at everything I say??? Please stOP. The PM's a good guy really, he's just a bit frazzled</p><p>*The Faeries I'm referring to are the Cottingley Fearies and the hoax surrounding them. I really love this story so please read up more about them at your leisure (there's even a film!) but basically in 1917, England, two girls borrowed one of their fathers' camera and took it to where they liked to play in the woods. When the father developed the film, he found photos of this daughter and her cousin playing with and surrounded by faeries. Eventually they caught high profile media attention and gained hundreds of believers, one being Arthur Conan Doyle himself. They only admitted they were faked (quite obviously so to us modern day folk) in the 1980s and many people still believed they were real up until this confession. I guess people in England really do just wish to believe that the fay are real, don't they?</p><p>Canada is saying to America that if this 'problem' of his with his PM had happened a few decades earlier there wouldn't have been a problem as the PM would have believed instantly upon seeing the old photos of Canada, nowadays with Photoshop however...errrrr not so much. You're gonna need to try harder Matthew!</p><p>** When this was originally written, this was Vine rather than TikTok. RIP Vine, you will forever be missed.</p><p>Also, I have no idea what the inside of the Canadian parliment buildings look like. Can you tell? To any real life Canadians out there, I apologise, please do correct me if there's anything glaringly wrong!</p><p>Much love and thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took a few minutes of deep, even breathing, but eventually the PM managed to calm his thoughts enough for him to repress the angry feelings that were threatening to bubble over his political facade. <em>No</em> Stephen, you cannot yell at random staff members. <em>Yes</em> Stephen, this is obviously something you're going to have to deal with; judging by how many people seemed to be in on it and how vehemently they were all sticking with it, this whole 'Canada' business didn't seem like it was going to go away anytime soon.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>
  <em>Fine.</em>
</p><p>He'd dealt with worse, honestly, and it's not like he expected this job to be a walk in the park (although he could definitely admit to having never expected this.)</p><p>He straightened his tie and released a final long breath before turning around to survey the damage behind him. The staff seemed to have gone back to work, but the PM could tell that they were watching him out of the corner of their eyes, eager for gossip as all human beings were. Flashing them a quick nonchalant grin as he passed, he made his way out of Mr Williams' office and stopped quickly by his own to grab the papers he needed, before then heading down to his meeting with the higher ups of the other parties. He'd give them something to watch alright, he didn't become the Prime Minister of Canada by wearing his heart on his sleeve, after all; this was just another battle that he was determined to win.</p><p>Despite his brief <em>distraction</em> with Mr Williams, the PM still made it to the meeting room in good time. The other leaders nodded to him politely and, at his gesture, made their way to their seats to begin. As the PM glanced around at all of them, he momentarily forgot everything else that had happened that day as the full weight of who he was and what he was actually doing took its chance to hit him in full force. These were <em>his </em>opposition, <em>his</em> government, <em>his</em> meeting. He allowed a small smile. Ahh, this was a good feeling. He quickly and professionally masked his very immodest train of thought and nodded at them all stoically, clearing this throat to start off.</p><p>'Ladies and gentlemen,' he looked up and his brain chose that moment to register that Mr Williams was also seated, nestled amongst the other politicians in the room.</p><p>The other party members looked at him curiously, 'um, Mr Williams,'</p><p>Mr Williams titled his head up, 'Yes, sir?'</p><p>The PM caught himself before he said anything he regretted. There were many things that he wanted to say, but he also knew that he had to be careful. God only knows who else was in on this gag of Williams', that and being harsh to a young aide, intern or whatever the fuck he was without cause or reason would, in the eyes of his opposition, be something to stew on and potentially use against him later.</p><p>'Mr Williams, are you sure you're supposed to be here? This meeting is for party officials and members of government only.'</p><p>Mr Williams took his time in looking about at the faces now staring his way. He took stock of them all and then unhurriedly turned to look back at the PM. 'Yes, I think so.'</p><p>The members of government started to mutter under their breaths amongst themselves. One of them stared at Mr Williams in suspicion, but then shook his head hastily and looked away.</p><p>'He's meant to be here, isn't he?'</p><p>All eyes turned to look at a middle-aged woman from the PM's own party. She stared them all down unabashedly and clicked her pen. 'He's been here every other time, as far as I can remember anyway.'</p><p>There was a mumble of agreement. A small voice in the back of the PM's head knew what she said was true. Oddly enough, now that he thought of it, Mr Williams had always been at the meetings with party officials, silently seated and taking notes. How long had he been doing that for? And why hadn't the PM noticed him before now? Even though he'd probably been in God knows how many meetings with the young man, he'd never spoken to him before becoming Prime Minister.</p><p>He quickly hushed the murmuring. 'Yes well, in that case let's begin, shall we?' There were some fights not worth starting and this particular one was one the PM just knew he wasn't going to win and Mr Williams seemed to know it. He flashed the PM a small smile before glancing down and away to his paperwork, which he shuffled carefully.</p><p>He blended unobtrusively into the background and no one, save the PM, glanced his way again.</p><hr/><p>After the meeting, nothing much else happened between them for a few days. Mr Williams went back to his office just after the PM had finished speaking and, aside from setting new work for him to look over and filling in his itinerary for him, generally stayed out of his way. The other members of staff never mentioned anything, that he overheard anyway, about his and Mr Williams' discussion and, as promised, his previous aide Judy arrived promptly on the Thursday. After she started, the notes and paperwork from Mr Williams stopped completely as Judy swiftly took up those menial tasks for him, which meant that they no longer needed to talk to each other at all.</p><p>Despite the fact that this lack of contact should have meant that things would get easier, there was still quite a large elephant in the room and it got bigger with each passing day. Well, maybe there was more than one elephant. The smaller elephant was that, now that he wasn't working as his aide, the PM had absolutely no idea what the young man spent his time doing, or what he was even <em>supposed</em> to be doing. Every time the PM caught sight of Mr Williams roaming about the parliament buildings, he seemed to be busy, either talking on the phone or with other officials or sometimes just ferrying paperwork from place to place, but the PM had no clue as to what was actually doing. Surely it was nothing he himself had set which meant that Mr Williams must be doing work for somebody. But no matter how much the PM poked about in the files or who he tried to ask he never found out anything other than what he really didn't want to hear.</p><p>The only answer he seemed to find was the larger elephant; Matthew Williams was the national representation and human embodiment of the nation of Canada, and had been for an impossibly long time. This was, of course, ridiculous, and in more than one way. The whole concept itself was absurd, obviously- Williams barely passed for twenty, let alone a wise old man in his three-hundreds. Not only that, but the fact that every single person on the main floor refused to let go of this stupid little joke was mind boggling. Did everyone think that he was crazy? How long were they going to keep this up? If anything, they seemed to have got more overt about it now. They called Mr Williams 'Canada' to his face or to reference him when he wasn't there and, when they noticed the PM listening, they seemed to increase the volume. Come to think of it, people seemed to be tailoring conversations specifically so that Mr Williams could be mentioned as such, even if the conversation in question had nothing to do with him. No no <em>no</em>, now he was just being paranoid. His wife always said that he over analysed things too much.</p><p>The real kicker for the PM though was that Mr Williams seemed to turn up, uninvited, to every single meeting concerning anything slightly politically important and no one other than the PM seemed to find this in any way odd. No one seemed to notice him sitting there listening, for one, and even if the PM brought it up or he was noticed, Mr Williams' presence was unanimously accepted as normal. Which, it was most certainly not. They spoke about highly confidential topics and acts of governance in those meetings, yet everyone attending seemed to forget that Mr Williams, a seemingly role-less, wandering, and unknown youngster, was sitting right there with them making notes. How was he even here in the first place? How did twenty-year-olds get jobs of this level that young?</p><p>What did he even do every day and why did nobody care other than him!?</p><p>Really, it was the last one that was driving the PM the craziest. Even if it was a joke, people not on the main floor didn't <em>know</em> about the whole Canada prank, yet they still didn't question Williams' presence at all.</p><p>The PM took a deep breath in through his nose and took a swing of coffee from his new maple leaf mug. Ever since his sort of public discussion with Mr Williams, the people who worked on their floor seemed to be going out of their way to give him Canada themed gifts any way they could. He didn't even know if it was the whole office or just one person, but he'd started to find random Canadian objects appearing in and around his office. Sometimes they were given to him personally, like this mug, which was a gift from Mrs Andrews, but others were just left about or hidden in plain sight for him to find. Judy swore her innocence, but on Monday morning all of his pens were replaced with ones displaying the national hockey teams and just the other day Canadian flag plant pots had appeared on his windowsill. His office was starting to look like a gift shop.</p><p>He was almost done for the day. Judy had already gone home and he was one of the few remaining; he was toying with the idea of re-gifting his new collection of maple leaf magnets to his mother-in-law when suddenly inspiration stuck.</p><p>What if he wasn't the only one who has had to go through this. What if... what if this was a <em>tradition, </em>a tradition that the last PM might have also gone through and might then actually have an idea as to what the hell was going on. He must have hired Mr Williams, surely, the boy wouldn't have been old enough to work before his term, so the previous PM must have at least some idea of where the boy come from.</p><p>With the hope of logical salvation reignited, the PM quickly searched his desk for his contact ledger and, upon finding it, stabbed the personal number for the previous Prime Minister into his desk phone, slightly perturbed to find his heart racing with a nervous excitement. This whole ordeal was getting to him, that was for sure.</p><p>Trying to calm himself down to a more presentable level, the PM gave a small start when the call connected and a voice filtered through to his ear.</p><p>
  <em>'Hello?'</em>
</p><p>'Ah hello, Mr Simmons?'*</p><p><em>'Ah!'</em> the voice boomed at him down the phone,<em> 'Little Stevie, nice of you to call! We're still meeting in a few days for the press conference, right?'</em></p><p>The PM liked his predecessor. He was the kind of rare politician who says what he <em>really</em> feels and not what he knows people will want to hear. Luckily for him the opinions he held were ones the public wanted at the time, allowing him to float to the top and stay there unchallenged; very much a loud ungainly goose amongst elegant swans.</p><p>The PM smiled. 'Yes, it's at noon, if I remember.'</p><p>
  <em>'Good, good! Time for something to eat beforehand, eh? Now, what can I do you for today?'</em>
</p><p>'Well...,' recently, when it came to Mr Williams, the PM seemed to lose his quick tongue and sharp verbal reflexes; he had no idea where to even begin without sounding like a mad man, 'this is going to sound really bizarre, but there's been this- um, this topic? Going around and I wanted to see if this was usual... what I mean to ask is if you experienced anything similar in your first few weeks.'</p><p>Mr Simmons was patiently silent.</p><p>'I wanted to know, first of all, anything you can tell me about a young man who works here, probably hired during your administration, a Mr Williams?'</p><p>Mr Simmons chuckled. <em>'Oh yes, he's already told me about this.'</em></p><p>'About what?'</p><p>
  <em>'That you don't believe that he's Canada.'</em>
</p><p>And then, it was as if the world paused a little bit. There was a fly in the room, and it was buzzing contentedly about the office before choosing to rest on one of his new plant pots; the PM blinked to find himself stuck looking at it, unable to pull his gaze away.</p><p>
  <em>'You still there, buddy?'</em>
</p><p>The world, with all its utter ridiculousness, zapped back into focus again and the PM suddenly felt akin to a young boy in the school yard whose friends didn't want to tell him why they were laughing. 'Oh yes, I'm still here.'</p><p>Mr Simmons sucked in a breath. <em>'Not going well, huh?'</em></p><p><em>Not going- </em>'I think that's a bit of an understatement.' The PM knew that his voice sounded terse but couldn't bring himself to fix it. 'What the fuck is going on, Daniel. This isn't funny- hell, this isn't even a prank anymore.'</p><p><em>'Oh, I get it,</em>' Mr Simmons said sympathetically, <em>'hell, it was a lot for me to deal with too. It's not every day that someone tells you they're immortal, you know? I mean, I got lucky; he said it and it was like this Bam! My brain kinda melted for a bit but I knew and I was a gibbering mess for a few hours. The whole thing is a bit much to believe.'</em></p><p>The PM let out a dry bark of laughter. 'A bit much? Are you seriously- you want me to believe this? You as well? God...'</p><p><em>'Now now,'</em> replied Mr Simmons, placatingly, '<em>I know it sounds unbelievable-'</em></p><p>'Unbelievable? Unbelievable!? A twenty-year-old boy is the physical representation of the country I'm supposed to be running and he doesn't seem to age or die; how the hell is anyone supposed to find that believable?!'</p><p><em>'Stephen, listen,'</em> Mr Simmons tried to interject, <em>'I get it, I do, and you're not the only one who's needed more time! But it's true, all you need to do is calm down an-'</em></p><p>'Calm down? Calm dow- oh okay sure, I'll calm down; just sit here like the sucker I am and agree, right? Well, you know what, I'm not falling for it Dan, I'm not doing it. You're all acting like assholes; if you're not willing to admit to this whole sham or at least tell me one bit of truth about that boy then there's not much point talking to you.'</p><p>Over the desperate response to the contrary from Mr Simmons, the PM said curtly, 'I'll see you at the press conference.' and promptly cut the call before leaning back heavily into his chair, staring burning holes into his new Senator pen.</p><p>This obviously wasn't going to go away anytime soon, that much was guaranteed. In that case, he had two options, go stark raving crazy or get clever and wait for someone to mess up. There was a saying that the PM had never really liked much, but now found more relatable than anything else: 'If you can't beat them, join them.'</p><p>Well, he certainly wouldn't join them, but he wouldn't let the beat him either. Nodding in resolve, he stood and went off in search of Mr Williams, he had some pretending to do.  He didn't really consider himself much of an actor, but if there was anything he could do very well it was the ability to speak with conviction about something he may or may not agree with. He wasn't Prime Minister for nothing, after all. (1)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I would love use current and previous Prime Ministers to make this more accurate, but I'm afraid I have no idea how to write Mr Trudeau's personality and personally writing about real life people always makes me feel weird. I'm very much an 'every detail must be as correct as I can get it' writer, and trying to make up a personality for a real person makes me twitch and squirm because I know I won't be able to do it. So, you get random fictional people instead! If you would prefer to think of it more realistically, then I'm writing about the guy after Trudeau set a few years into the future.</p><p>(1) By this, I don't mean that the PM is a sneaky, deceitful man, just that he is a politician and they do have a slippery way with words. If anyone can speak convincingly and win people over, it's them.</p><p>The other staff members weren't mentioned here, and nor was there very much of Canada himself, but worry not for they're a big part of the next chapter. I see Matt as this really chill guy with the patience of a saint who turns into a passive aggressive bastard when he wants to be, so I'm looking forward to pushing this quickly onwards so he can have his shining moment.</p><p>I always seem to post these updates and as soon as I do I find loads of typos and repeated words that I never see during the editing process, so I'm sorry for those. They bug me too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Taking a deep breath in, the PM rapped smartly on Mr William's door. It was open, as it always seemed to be, but he knocked anyway, feeling as if he at least needed to make up for his previous impoliteness if he were going to go through with this.</p><p class="western">Mr Williams was at his desk, tapping away at his computer, but looked up quickly at the knock and smiled at him, motioning for him to enter. 'Oh, hello, Sir.'</p><p class="western">The PM shot him a quick smile back as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.</p><p class="western">'Good afternoon, Mr Williams.' He fought the urge to fiddle with his fingers. 'I wanted to tell you- well, I was in my office and you left a photo behind from the other day and it caught my eye- “<em>he said it and it was like this Bam!”- </em>and all of a sudden I could just...' he paused, noticing Mr Williams straighten up with interest or anticipation. 'I <em>knew</em>, and Canada, it is a pleasure to meet you, truly.'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams blinked at him before his face split into a huge toothy smile. 'Oh, thank goodness!' He got up and quickly crossed the front of the desk, coming to stand in front of the PM where he grabbed his right hand and pumped it in a forceful, enthusiastic handshake. 'I knew it would happen eventually you know, but you did take so long that I was starting to become a little bit concerned; maybe I didn't say it right, perhaps, or maybe my delivery wasn't strong enough, but it doesn't really matter now, eh?'</p><p class="western">'Ah...' unprepared to deal with this level of euphoric joy, the PM stumbled a bit in how to take things from here, settling to gingerly try and extract his hand from Mr Williams' strong grip as the other man continued to babble happily at him.</p><p class="western">'I've heard of longer, of course, sometimes it takes months but I've never had it happen to me before and so I didn't really know what to do, to be honest. I mean, bosses don't <em>have</em> to know, China sometimes doesn't even bother to tell his leaders if he doesn't like the look of them but he's so old that he can kinda do that, I guess, because they've all got so much respect for him that he just pops in and out of government whenever he feels as though they're not doing a good enough job.'</p><p class="western">The young man paused for breath, looking at him with relief and the PM was suddenly struck with the sensation that he'd just lied about the well-being of a precious cat to its elderly owner. 'Well, I'm just happy that this happened before the UK visit, the Old World are sticklers for politeness and tradition anyway but Dad's a bit something special all to himself, you know? I hadn't told him yet, -that would have been a terrible phone call- but now I don't have to worry about it. Oh!'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams suddenly looked concerned and peered at him over his large glasses. 'I'm so sorry, you must have so many questions and here I am jabbering away.' He gave a gentle laugh. 'Do you? Have any questions, I mean.'</p><p class="western">The PM swallowed and tried to ignore the misplaced feelings of guilt licking away at his insides. What on earth would someone ask, if they believed this farce to be true? Racking his brain, he said the first thing he could think of, 'Are you immortal?'</p><p class="western">Inwardly he cringed at such a typical, cheesy question. '<em>Are you immortal',</em> really Stephen? Could he not have thought of anything more substantial than that?</p><p class="western">Mr Williams didn't seem surprised though, and just chuckled good-naturedly. 'Well, not really no. I mean, if you shoot me in the head I'll die, but I'll just heal it whereas you, uh, won't. But if the nation of Canada ceases to exist, then I will too.' He gave a one armed shrugged and looked sheepish. 'Basically, if there are Canadians, there's me. My body is human but what keeps me breathing is a little different.'</p><p class="western">'Do you not age then?' The PM was curious, despite himself.</p><p class="western">'We do,' Mr Williams replied, 'but just slower. As the civilisation we represent advances or grows stronger or older, so do we. If the nation or land suffers a signification catastrophe then we'll feel the damage somewhere, or start to age at a more human speed if the civilisation collapses or declines for good.'</p><p class="western">At the PM's look of surprise, Mr Williams elaborated. 'That's not to say it works the other way around; if I get hurt it doesn't affect the nation, but if the nation gets hurt then it does affect me. I'm not the literal walking talking landmass, after all.' He gave another laugh and the sound of it made the PM want to smile too. 'Just the embodiment of the people who live on it.'</p><p class="western">Instead, he shook his head. This was- quite frankly this was ludicrous. How could anyone <em>believe</em> this? What was the point of it all? What on earth was Mr Williams gaining by pretending that this was true? So many questions and the PM felt himself growing annoyed by thinking about them again and so stopped to focus back on Mr Williams, who was smiling giddily at him.</p><p class="western">'Thank you for the explanation, it answers a few questions for me (lies); I think that is all for me for today. It's a bit ah... a bit much to take in.'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams' expression changed to looked at him sympathetically. 'Oh I know, please do take your time; I know that this is a lot to process. But!' he hopped around his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out the folder he'd tried to show the PM the other day. 'There's this. Have a read and come back at any time. Now, we've got the House of Commons meeting in a bit but there's still time for a quick Tim's (1) beforehand, I wouldn't blame you.'</p><p class="western">He looked all of his 20 odd years, and the PM was once again struck by the feeling of lying to his grandma or that he was committing some other such unspeakable evil. Like pushing over a toddler or saying farewell to a dog you were abandoning.</p><p class="western">'Now, you go back to your office,' said Mr Williams, coming out again from his desk and edging towards the door, 'whilst you sort that out, I'll tell the floor that you're “in the know”. They were trying to kick start your patriotic side to see if it'd help to come to terms with all of this; if I don't tell them to stop I think there'd be more knick-knacks than furniture in there.' He inclined his head towards the PM's room and raised his eyebrows.</p><p class="western">'Wait, that was <em>everyone</em>?'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, I probably should have got them to stop but they really did think it may help you come to terms with this faster; it was cute.'</p><p class="western">With that, Mr Williams ducked out of the room, leaving the PM alone and very confused.</p><hr/><p class="western">The PM, after a week, was astounded that things had been going so well. As it turned out, pretending that he believed that Mr Williams was Canada was surprisingly easy. Everyone seemed so relieved that he'd come around to the 'truth' that they were willing to overlook any slip up or slight that the PM may have committed. He'd gone back to his room after talking to Mr Williams and in no more than 5 minutes at least half of the floor had come to see him and enthusiastically congratulate him.</p><p class="western">Not that they hadn't been before, but people were far friendlier to him now that he had 'come around' and 'realised something so obvious'; Étienne came by just to chat and Judy actually <em>smiled</em> at him, which in their 5 years of working together she'd only done for special occasions. He hadn't even known that Judy had been spoken to about Matthew Williams supposedly being Canada, let alone that she believed in it all as well. The whole atmosphere of their floor had risen to a whole new level of comfortable informality, certainly not something he'd foreseen the Prime Minister's work environment to have, but he certainly wasn't complaining. He'd even forgotten, in all the aftermath, to call Mr Williams by his assumed identity in front of about ten people and Mr Williams himself, but not one person seemed even slightly critical or suspicious that the PM might not believe it still.</p><p class="western">These people were so willing to believe in the fantasy of semi-immortal men that he felt he could show them thousands upon thousands of pieces of evidence that Mr Williams was not, in fact, a breathing representation of essentially dirt, but that they would only continue to parrot otherwise and angrily dismiss anything else.</p><p class="western">If he ignored the utter insanity of what he was currently feeding into, there was some good to come out of this. One question could now be answered; everyone on his floor wholeheartedly believed that Mr Williams was Canada. This wasn't a joke after all, people actually <em>believed </em>this. As hard as he tried to find evidence to the contrary, and try indeed he did, the PM found no one forgetting to call Mr Williams Canada; no one, not even once, strayed from the script and changed opinion or personality and the PM didn't... didn't really know what to make of that.</p><p class="western">What <em>was</em> he supposed to make of it? These people honestly did believe that Mr Williams was the avatar of their country and found that to be completely normal. What on earth does one say to that? Heck, how do you even act around people like that? A joke is one thing, a joke he could understand, even if it was at his own expense. A joke was still a logical thing, with a logical answer and completely sane, if unkind, people running the show. But this...hell, he didn't even know what this was any more.</p><p class="western">Despite all of the nonsense that was currently going on, the PM had to admit one thing as being a shining light in all of this craziness: Mr Williams was damn good at his job, whatever it was. He didn't really want to ask again because it would give away that he still didn't believe in the whole Canada business and had still not read the folder so he kept this to himself, but Mr Williams was very knowledgeable when it came to anything even slightly political. He knew the ins and outs of every policy or bill, historical or modern, he could tell you the differences and impacts of each and every one of them on top of that, and he was great at reading the economy. It was like he had this in-built reading, his predictions were always 100% accurate and, more importantly, he could tell the PM why any small change occurred. It was baffling how on earth he got all of this information and it was even more so considering his age. In fact, his age made him even more of a mystery, he was only four or five years older than the PM's own son and yet Mr Williams had a dedication to his work and an attention to detail that rivalled even the most experienced and longest serving politician the PM had ever met, a personality trait that the PM could sadly never see his son gaining in such a short amount of time.</p><p class="western">To help himself out, the PM tried not to think about it too much. He'd already learnt that advice from Mr Williams, no matter what it was, was always a good thing to heed; the other day he'd given him a very good explanation about housing investment. But taking it made him feel even more conflicted than he already was. Mr Williams was obviously a good and kind man who knew his way around politics and government extremely well and was happy to help, so taking his advice and using his knowledge when the PM was secretly cooking up ways to get him to admit that the whole 'I'm your nation hyuck hyuck' thing was a lie felt <em>wrong </em>on so many levels.</p><hr/><p class="western">The PM should have known that something would go wrong at some point. After all, he didn't for a second believe that he'd go his whole term pretending along with them all just to fit in, but he hadn't thought of how he'd get out of it, either.</p><p class="western">His mistake, really.</p><p class="western">A stupid mistake at that. First of all, he still hadn't read the folder. He hadn't read through it yet because doing so almost felt as though he was giving in to the realistic possibility of 'Canada', which he was certainly not willing to do. So, he was completely unprepared for what happened about two weeks after talking to Mr Williams about his 'revelation'.</p><p class="western">He was in a meeting with the main body of his government, and they had just decided on their first new bill which would overturn a previous one. It had taken them a while to get there, but it was one leading up to one of the PM's main policies and he was damned if he wasn't going to get it to go through after all the work he'd done to get here.</p><p class="western">Looking around at them all, he gave then a satisfied grin and smiled, nodding at the deputy Prime Minster. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time today. I'm happy to pass this off as the first official policy change in my government, a stepping stone for hopefully many more.'</p><p class="western">There were murmurs of approval or congratulations and the PM stood to announce the meeting as over, allowing them all to leave if they so wished. As he did so, he locked eyes with Mr Williams who was seated in the far corner where he usually sat, but this time he was frowning at his hands; very unusual for him.</p><p class="western">The PM waited until most had filtered out and all those who wished to speak to him had done so before he made his way over to where Mr Williams was sat, unmoving and sullen.</p><p class="western">The PM spoke quietly, so no one could hear him. 'Canada? What's the matter?'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams had his hand interwoven and tapped his thumbs together. 'You hadn't told me that there was a bill you planned on passing today.'</p><p class="western">'Uh...' Oh shit, he'd messed up somewhere. Wait, hold on, why was he even worrying about this? 'I'm sorry, but why would you need to know?'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams' head snapped up. 'What? Why wouldn't I nee-' his eyes narrowed in suspicion, 'you didn't read the folder, did you?'</p><p class="western">The PM automatically held his hands up, 'Hey now-'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams stood suddenly and shook his head incredulously. 'I can't believe you, you didn't even read it. You still don't believe me, do you? You've been pretending this whole time.'</p><p class="western">'Mr Williams-'</p><p class="western">'Canada!' Mr Williams jabbed a finger in his direction, the other clenched tightly at his side. 'My name, is Canada. Not Mr Williams, not Matthew, and not anything else, it is Canada.'</p><p class="western">The PM looked about to see if anyone else was noticing this out of character and rather heated outburst, but those others left in the room seemed unable to hear them or were very good at pretending to not pay attention.</p><p class="western">Mr Williams noticed and scoffed at him, frowning. 'Any bill or policy you're planning on passing or changing needs to go by me first. You cannot make a law without me knowing about it. I don't like secrecy in my government and I never have; I don't plan on starting now.'</p><p class="western">'Mr Williams, I'm afraid you don't have much of a say when it comes to what is and what is not changed; that's my job.'</p><p class="western">'Sir, you will find that I do have a say.'</p><p class="western">The PM furrowed his brow and took a step forward. 'That, Mr Williams, is not your call; it would be in your best interests to remember that I run this country.'</p><p class="western">Mr Williams met him. 'Stephen, I AM this country!'</p><p class="western">The PM forced himself to hold out and not move back, but for a split second he was filled with the overwhelming urge to <em>run</em>.</p><p class="western">Instead, he breathed hard through his nose and tried to calm himself down. His head was filled with a white noise that made it very hard to think or focus on anything other than Mr Williams, who stepped back and shook his head sadly, mood softening.</p><p class="western">'I'm disappointed in you,' he had said, and the PM stood there for a long while after the other man had left and wondered why that comment hurt him so much.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AN:<br/>(1) Tims referring to Tim Hortons, a glorious, beautiful place of Canadian spirit. 10/10, would highly recommend.</p><p>The urge for me to write 'dude' or 'bud' or something similar was very strong whenever I wrote about the PM speaking to Canada in a friendly way as it seem him a quite a happy chappy, but I have no idea what Canadians would say in this instance. Dude and bud seem very American and the only other alternatives I can think of that are appropriate are British. I'm trying very hard to write in a Canadian way, but I feel that my writing style is leaning more towards a British manner of speaking. Please, any Canadians reading, feel free to help a girl out make this more authentic haha.</p><p>This is the last pre-written chapter from the huge chunk I wrote back in 2017 (I am sad too, past me was very efficient for a while there). Now I just need to get off my lazy bum and write some more.</p><p>Hopefully, I'll see you all soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="Standard">Needless to say, the office hadn't taken it well.</p><p class="Standard">That wasn’t to say that they did anything, but it was more of what they <em>didn't</em> do which was actually the most disconcerting. As the PM went back up to his office, about ten minutes after Mr Williams had left him stewing in an odd mix of shame and guilt in the conference room, he could sense an immediate temperature drop, almost as if someone had turned on the AC too low for too long and chilled the air. But, accompanying that was the horrible heavy feeling that was settled about the place; no one mentioned anything, to him or within his earshot at least, but darn it, he knew that they knew.</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams wouldn’t have had the time to go around and tell them all in only 10 minutes, and he certainly didn’t seem to be the type of guy to angrily shout it out to everybody in the middle of the office, but the PM was certain that his secret was out. They <em>must </em>know, every smile seemed forced or more distant than before but, on top of that, when he left that evening the farewells seemed clipped and they didn't look at him longer than was necessary.</p><p class="Standard">The PM knew he shouldn't let it get to him. It was ridiculous! Just because he didn't want to go along with this little sham of theirs, he was the bad guy? <em>But that's not what they're angry about</em>, said the little voice in his head, <em>they're angry you lied to them</em>. <em>They thought you were one of them and you were playing them and now they feel betrayed.</em></p><p class="Standard">He lay in bed that night and tossed restlessly, unable to sleep for thinking. To be truthful, he felt guilty about the whole thing; really, he did. He knew for certain now that, despite what <em>he</em> thought and despite what was <em>true,</em> the people he worked with did honestly believe that Matthew Williams was Canada and by pretending that he too believed, he had patronised them terribly. It was akin to pretending to follow a religion you didn't believe in to make friends, but <em>worse</em> somehow because their deity was someone they could touch and speak to and thus far more offensive. Even if he didn't believe -which he <em>doesn't- </em>the least he could have done was to have been truthful with them; sure, they may have been disappointed that he wasn't quite one of them, but at least he would have had his morals and their trust.</p><p class="Standard">And trust in this business was a very fickle thing to come by and keep indeed.</p><p class="Standard">He tossed again, turning to lay on his side and facing his wife. He peered at her in the darkness and, as if sensing that there were some stupidly idiotic ideas afoot, she cracked opened her eyes to squint at him. 'What's wrong?'</p><p class="Standard">He licked his lips. 'Nothing...well. Maybe something.'</p><p class="Standard">She frowned at him. 'Do I need my glasses?'</p><p class="Standard">'What? No no, not that kind of something. Something at work.'</p><p class="Standard">She sighed. 'Are you sure I don't need my glasses.'</p><p class="Standard">'Leigh-'</p><p class="Standard">'Alright, okay.' She turned on her back and ran her hand down her face before resting it over her eyes. 'I'm awake, what's up.'</p><p class="Standard">'This is going to sound- actually you know what, I’ll just tell you. I want your honest opinion.'</p><p class="Standard">She peeked through her fingers at him. 'Okay...'</p><p class="Standard">'There's a guy at work who thinks he's Canada. As in, he believes that he is the representation of the country of Canada. A nation in the form of a human.'</p><p class="Standard">His wife blinked at him.</p><p class="Standard">'Also, the entire floor believes him. Not a shadow of a doubt, they all believe that a nineteen-year-old kid is the human embodiment of Canada who's over 300 odd years old and they want me to believe it too.'</p><p class="Standard">'What.'</p><p class="Standard">'So', he propped himself up on his elbow to look at her better. 'What do you think.'</p><p class="Standard">'Are you serious?'</p><p class="Standard">'Yeah.'</p><p class="Standard">She huffed. 'Then I think they're all fucking crazy.'</p><p class="Standard">The PM gave a light laugh. 'I know. I thought it was a prank for ages but no, they do honestly believe him to the point where they're starting to freeze me out for not accepting “The Truth.”’</p><p class="Standard">She cocked her head. 'You don't believe them, do you?'</p><p class="Standard">'What? No, God no, honey, you just said yourself-'</p><p class="Standard">'I know I know,' she brought up a hand and patted his cheek, 'just making sure I don't need my glasses.'</p><p class="Standard">'Why would you need your glasses?'</p><p class="Standard">She grinned in the dark, teeth gleaming. 'To examine your tiny brain through your ear.'</p><p class="Standard">He tried to smother a smile by frowning at her and kissed her quiet before bidding her goodnight. Settling himself back down amongst his pillows he at least felt better about one thing, he was right about how he felt about his whole situation; validated. Talking about it to another person, even if that person was his wife, who would be more biased towards agreeing with him than most, made him feel far better than running it all around alone in his head in an attempt to find the logic amongst the insanity. Just saying it out loud to someone else just made the whole problem sound so ridiculous. Come on, countries represented by immortal men? Jesus...</p><p class="Standard">Pressing his eyes shut he tried his best not to think about how tomorrow at work would go and tried to think about anything else even remotely more logical, which turned out to be a good many things. Aliens, for example. Heh, if this whole country thing <em>were</em> real, he'd bet that the Americans were hiding aliens somewhere. He fell asleep to dreams of attacking the Whitehouse in spaceships with Mr Williams at the helm.</p><hr/><p class="Standard">The next day, work was just as awkward.</p><p class="Standard">Like with yesterday, things weren’t <em>bad</em>, but every interaction the PM had with his staff felt very forced, their true feelings hidden under a veneer of politeness that wasn’t quite sitting right to be genuine. By the time lunch rolled around, the PM had retreated gratefully to his office to chew his sandwiches in blissful silence, happy to be left alone.</p><p class="Standard">If he were honest, he very much didn’t know what to do now. There wasn’t a manual for this, no HR helpful tips about how to better get along with your colleagues after you mocked their core belief system, and there was certainly no one he could go to for advice on the matter. The only person whom his brain kept telling him <em>would</em> be helpful was Mr Williams, oddly, but that was a very traitorous part and the PM made sure to squash those feelings very quickly.</p><p class="Standard">After he was done eating, the PM sighed, gazing about his desk at the scatterings of paper detailing his upcoming London trip. There were more parts to it than he had initially realised. (1) He knew that there was an official side to the whole thing; meeting the UK PM, strengthening political ties of friendship, meeting the Queen, etc. But, apparently, there was a part just before all of that where he met everybody <em>informally,</em> without all of his ministers and cabinet and without the international press attention. Just him meeting the British Prime Minister for a dinner, and then the same thing with her Majesty.</p><p class="Standard">Quite frankly, the PM was terrified about this prospect. Political meetings and discussions on governance he could handle, but this would be meeting the Queen for a chat, seemingly for no reason other than tradition <em>and </em>without being officially ‘met’ yet.</p><p class="Standard">He frowned, shifting the papers about. Some of them seemed to be missing, or read as though a few details had been omitted; a ‘Lord Kirkland’ kept cropping up, but there was no explanation who this man was or why he was involved in the more informal, traditional parts of this whole process.</p><p class="Standard">He leant forward, pressing the buzzer to call Judy.</p><p class="Standard">She answered with a cool, ‘Yes, Prime Minister?’</p><p class="Standard">‘Judy, can you come in here a moment, please?’</p><p class="Standard">There was a short pause, just a beat of silence, but enough that the PM could feel a slight opposition.</p><p class="Standard">‘Of course.’</p><p class="Standard">She arrived moments later, as professional as ever. ‘I wanted to ask what you knew about the upcoming UK trip; it appears that I have some pieces of information missing.’ He said after the door had shut behind her, waving the documents aloft.</p><p class="Standard">Judy frowned. ‘What do you mean, Sir?’</p><p class="Standard">‘Well,’ the PM flicked through the pages and drew out one of them. ‘The first few days detailed here mention a dinner with the PM at a Lord Kirkland’s manor, but there’s nothing about who this man is or why I’m to be dining at his house.’ He paused. ‘Or even where the house is. Or what he has to do with anything.’</p><p class="Standard">Judy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry Sir, I don’t know.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM began to feel a very familiar resignation creep in. ‘And who would?’</p><p class="Standard">He could see the corners of Judy’s mouth tighten in what looked suspiciously to be the threat of a smile. ‘That’s would be Mr Williams, he organises the first half of the UK state visit.’</p><p class="Standard">The Prime Minister pressed his lips together. ‘Of course, he does. Well, could you send him in here please?’</p><p class="Standard">Judy looked uncomfortable.</p><p class="Standard">‘What is it?’</p><p class="Standard">Judy flicked her eyes briefly at the door before coming back to him. ‘Can I be honest, Sir?’</p><p class="Standard">The PM blinked in surprise. ‘Of course, we’ve been working together for years now; I would expect and appreciate nothing less.’</p><p class="Standard">Judy tilted her head, whether in acknowledgement or disagreement he couldn’t tell. ‘I don’t feel that it would be best to ask that of him. With the way things are, that feels…’ she hesitated, finding the word she wanted, ‘disrespectful.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM felt a flash of indignation which must have shown on his face because Judy quickly held up a hand to prevent him from speaking. ‘I am aware that you do not accept the truth of what he says’- <em>the truth </em>– ‘but it is the truth, nonetheless. I recommend that, even if you don’t believe us, to at least behave as though it <em>could</em> be true; to not dismiss things so easily. The fact is, Sir, that this isn’t going to go away and if you wish for your term in office to be comfortable, at least with your closest members of staff, it is in your best interests to give Mr Williams the curtesy of an open mind.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM considered her words, meeting her gaze which she confidently did not break. Judy had been with him for so long for a reason. Eventually he sighed, bringing a hand up to ruffle the back of his head. ‘God Judy, you make me feel like a schoolboy sometimes.’</p><p class="Standard">Judy gave him a small smile, but it was a genuine one and the PM was happy to see it. ‘Maybe, Sir, that is because sometimes you act like one.’</p><p class="Standard">He shook his head fondly and stood, collecting the papers and making his way to the door. ‘I must concede that you are right at times.’</p><p class="Standard">He bade her farewell and crossed the room to take himself to Mr Williams’ office door, which was unusually shut. Feeling the eyes of the office on the back of his head, the PM knocked and opened it after hearing a polite ‘Come in.’ from inside.</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams was eating his own lunch as well as working; there was a Tim Horton’s Farmers wrap (2) in one hand and he was scrolling through something on his computer with the other. At the PM’s entrance he looked up, impassive, before glancing back at his screen.</p><p class="Standard">The PM, now used to Mr Williams’ polite and genial manner, found this to be very disturbing behaviour. ‘I apologise for interupting your lunch,’ he said, stepping forward into the room. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I speak with you for a moment.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams glanced back at him, uncommunicative apart from a small raise of his eyebrows. <em>Jesus.</em></p><p class="Standard">The PM held out the UK trip documents and walked forwards to meet him. ‘I was reading through these and I have some questions; a few details appear to be missing.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams took a bite of his wrap and chewed it thoughtfully, staring at the outstretched papers, before he swallowed to answer. ‘Such as?’</p><p class="Standard">The PM brought his arm, which was still raised, down, feeling slightly awkward. Oddly, he felt very much as though he was being punished, or that he was a child who was aware of being in the wrong and was in the process of trying to skirt about it. He mentally shook himself, annoyed at the way he was suddenly behaving. This was <em>ridiculous</em>. ‘The trip mentions a Lord Kirkland and activities concerning him that I am to be involved in, but there is no mention of who he is or why I need to meet with him, rather than any other member of the British nobility. Or why I need to meet a member of the British nobility at all. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams gave a soft snort. ‘The folder I gave you would be able to tell you more.’</p><p class="Standard">The word ‘folder’ was stressed slightly and the PM felt irritation prick at him. ‘Mr Williams, are you deliberately withholding information from me?’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams did not look impressed. ‘No Stephen, I have told you very clearly, numerous times, where to find the information. You, however, continue to refuse to follow my suggestions.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM frowned at him. ‘Mr Williams, please do not refer to me by my personal name.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams tutted at him, turning away once more. ‘Then, please do not refer to me by mine.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM shook his head. That was it, he wasn’t going to play these games. ‘Well,’ he said coolly, ‘If the information isn’t in the official travel documentation, then I guess that it isn’t pertinent for me to know. And, seeing as I do not have all of the information about this person, it does not sound like a good idea for me to meet with them. Please cancel these particular activities for me on my behalf.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams’ eyes widened. ‘Wait!’ he said, pushing back his chair and standing quickly. ‘We- you need to attend the dinner.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM titled his head, happy to have changed the power dynamic and provoked something more than passive aggression from this young man. ‘I do not feel as though it is safe for me to do that, seeing as I lack the necessary information to make that judgement for myself.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams scrunched up his face, looking aggravated. ‘You do not <em>lack</em> the information; you refuse to <em>accept it</em>.’ He gritted out before sighing, staring up at the ceiling. ‘God, why is this happening?’</p><p class="Standard">‘Why indeed,’ the PM said, ‘That is something I’ve been asking myself every day recently.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams looked at him in frustration bordering on anger and the PM had to fight an urge to apologise to him, which had strangely bubbled up out of nowhere. ‘Look,’ he said, placatingly, ‘just tell me who this man is and why I need to meet with him. I know nothing about him and I don’t want to put my foot wrong.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams grumbled very darkly in French that he <em>would</em> be putting his foot wrong if he continued with his current attitude, but the PM ignored this and waited for him to calm down. Eventually, Mr Williams ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it behind his ears, and sat back down, gesturing for the PM to sit in the chair opposite the desk.</p><p class="Standard">‘You’re not going to believe what I have to say,’ he warned him, ‘so bear that in mind.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM nodded. ‘Noted.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams pursed his lips, shaking his head again. ‘Lord Arthur Kirkland is one of four representatives of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, when outside of the UK. When within British borders, he is England.’ He gave the PM a hard look, as though daring him to contradict him, but the PM stayed silent.</p><p class="Standard">‘He has always hosted these informal dinners when I get a change of government,’ he continued, ‘it is a tradition we’ve always had and one which he will expect you to attend.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams glanced down at the papers still in the PM’s hands and motioned at them with his head. ‘All of the first half of the UK visit will just be that; tradition. Information about Lord Kirkland <em>further</em>,’ here Mr Williams glanced back at the PM meaningfully, ‘can be found in the <em>folder</em>. Which, I heavily recommend that you read.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM ran his tongue over his teeth, looking down at the papers. ‘and what would happen if I refuse to attend?’</p><p class="Standard">He looked up to find Mr Williams looking stricken. ‘I do not recommend that.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM raised an eyebrow. ‘Whyever not? Kirkland holds no power over myself, or Canada, for that matter.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr William’s eye twitched at the mention of ‘Canada’. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘he doesn’t. But…’ Here Mr Williams looked extremely uncomfortable. ‘but I also haven’t told him that… well…’</p><p class="Standard">‘That I don’t believe you?’ The PM offered, helpfully.</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams gave him a flat look. ‘Yes. That. And I’d really rather not.’</p><p class="Standard">‘Why?’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams gave the PM a pleading look, as though he really wished they weren’t having this conversation, but eventually answered when he realised that the PM wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Because,’ he said in a frustrated voice, ‘this is <em>embarrassing.</em> For me, I mean.’</p><p class="Standard">He suddenly looked very sad. ‘As I said the other day, Dad’s a bit tighter on etiquette than most and this,’ he indicated at the PM and himself, ‘isn’t what he would consider polite.’</p><p class="Standard">A brief silence fell between them as the PM contemplated what to do next, trying to decide whether he should first comment on the strange family dynamics that had just been presented to him, or whether he should instead focus on the fact that not believing that Mr Williams was a nation was considered <em>impolite</em>.</p><p class="Standard">He was saved from his difficult choice by Mr Williams leaning forward. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘You don’t have to believe me. Heck, you can even continue to outright deny my existence out loud to anyone here at home. It’ll just have to be one of those things I accept and I’ll learn from this to be better for the next time.’</p><p class="Standard">The PM didn’t have time to consider being offended by this because Mr Williams carried on. ‘But can I ask you to just go along with it, when we’re out of the country? Please?’</p><p class="Standard">The PM found himself suddenly under the glare of very desperate looking eyes and, all of a sudden, he found himself wanting to do whatever Mr Williams had said if it would only stop him from looking at him like that. Catching himself, however, the PM cleared his throat. ‘Okay, now hang on a minute. Even if this all <em>were</em> true, which I do not believe that it is, by the way,’ Mr Williams nodded, agreeably, ‘don’t you think that’s kinda a bad way to go about this? Pretending to people just to cover this up?’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams coloured but then narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Stephen, this will be better for you too. You need to understand that <em>all</em> of the world governments have someone like me and, whether you believe it or not, it is very true and will come up quite often. The Queen, for example, will talk about it.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams raised his eyebrows and gave a small shrug. ‘So, you can either pretend to agree with everyone, or spend every moment of every foreign talk explaining <em>why</em> you don’t believe that I’m Canada and, in turn, why you don’t believe in any other national personification, either.’</p><p class="Standard">He leant back again, crossing his arms and looking smug, ‘Trust me when I say that some will take to that less kindly than others.’</p><p class="Standard">They both looked at each other in a brief stalemate. Finally, the PM nodded. ‘Deal.’ He said, sticking out his hand. ‘I’ll go along with this charade when in foreign talks and lands, and you help me to navigate them.’</p><p class="Standard">Mr Williams snorted a laugh but grabbed hold of his hand and shook it with a warm, strong grip. ‘That’s what I’m here for, Sir.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, this update is very on time considering my usual pattern of updates, but for the poor OP I originally wrote this for on the Hetalia Kinkmeme, this is 4 years late. (IAmSoSorry). OP, if should you ever stumble across this story, please do know that I’ve been thinking of you with ever growing guilt for the whole time and I promise to finish this for you, just in case you should ever think back to it fondly.</p><p>(1) Okay, as mentioned I’m a British gal who, despite having had the pleasure of living in Canada for a time, has no idea about how the PM of Canada interacts with the Queen, or whether there is an official tradition of meeting the Queen, or anything of that nature. Google and Wikipedia were not helpful, so I have taken artistic license in making something up. Any true Canadians out there though, please do tell me what actually goes on, if anything, because I’m morbidly curious and frustrated that the internet would not give up your secrets.</p><p>(2) Literally the best thing known to man, I couldn’t get enough of these bad boys. God, I miss them.</p><p>Thank you so much to everyone who has taken an interest in this story, especially those who took the time to write such lovely comments. I'm glad you're enjoying the progression, and hopefully I'll see you soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The time before the UK trip was filled with a sort of truce between the PM and Mr Williams. Mr Williams did not bring up the fact that he was (apparently) Canada, and the PM did not attempt to prevent or hinder Mr Williams from doing… whatever it was that Mr Williams did on a daily basis.</p><p>The PM noticed him in very important meetings he probably should not be attending, sitting there amongst ministers and other important members of state, unchallenged and content to observe proceedings. Occasionally, he offered his input on the topic of discussion and made eyes at the PM, as if he expected the PM to either A) tell him to leave, or B) write what he said down and act upon it with great haste. However, as the PM did neither of these two things, Mr Williams would lapse back into silence and scribble things in a notebook he’d begun to carry about with him.</p><p>This fragile alliance between them seemed to have trickled through the office. Long gone were the days of patriotic encouragement, but also gone were the days of tense, uneasy distance and strain. Instead, people seemed to potter about him pretty much as the PM expected them to in regards to a Prime Minister and his closest staff. Although, now that he knew how informal and happy the office <em>could</em> be, he was well aware of how ‘strange’ everything still was.</p><p>Either way, things seemed manageable.</p><p>The biggest point of continued contention came from the fact that the PM still refused to read the folder that Mr Williams had given him.</p><p>Because, <em>what if.</em></p><p>Now, not ‘what if’ this whole nonsense was true, of course not. (Because it wasn’t). But what if there was information in there that would have made this whole shebang a lot easier to digest. What if there were things inside that folder that neatly answered a lot of those silly questions concerning Mr Williams’s role and made the PM feel foolish for holding out so long. The PM was aware that he was likely making things more difficult for himself by <em>not </em>reading it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to open the damn thing. It felt like he would be admitting defeat to something. He couldn’t really even articulate it to himself at this point any further than that, but if he were honest with himself reading the folder had been reduced to mere stubborn refusal.</p><p>And that was his problem. He knew that not reading the folder had become something of a mark of pride and the longer things went on, the harder and harder it was getting to even entertain the notion that he would one day check it. The PM still didn’t understand how on earth what was happening to his staff concerning Mr Williams was happening, but it was now far easier to push it to the back of his mind and continue along with life and he was content to let it stay that way.</p><p>Mr Williams had realised this, and therein lay the point of contention. After their last discussion, where they had agreed to put down their odd nation-people grudge and carry on as regular human beings, the PM had returned the folder to Mr Williams to look after. It was his folder, after all, and contained information about him, so the PM felt that it was only right that Mr Williams should be the one to look after it.</p><p>Apparently, this was incorrect.</p><p>The next morning, the PM had found the folder and some of the documents within it spread about his desk as if waiting for him. He’d quickly gathered up the pages without looking at them, placed them back in Mr Williams’ office for him to find, and then gone about his day. The folder had reappeared after lunch, tucked into a stack of paperwork that the PM needed to look through. He’d very nearly opened it then on autopilot but stopped himself just in time when he touched the top and felt the older, thicker material. Back it went to Mr Williams’ office.</p><p>This continued for the remainder of the week. The PM would find the folder, or some of its contents, somewhere he was likely to look -on his desk, stacked within documents he needed to sign, in his <em>briefcase</em>- and, upon finding it, promptly return it to Mr Williams. If Mr Williams was there to receive it, he did so with a patient, if forced, smile and thanked him for its return. Strange how it kept wandering off like that, eh? Feel free to keep hold of it for a while.</p><p>No, thank you.</p><p>The PM hadn’t actually <em>caught</em> Mr Williams doing this to tell him off for it, but he didn’t think it could possibly be anyone else. For one, very few people had access to the PM’s office when he was not inside it and he highly doubted that Judy would be so inclined as to take part in any sort of nonsense. But secondly, Mr Williams seemed very protective of the folder itself. The times he had caught the younger man handling it, the PM had noticed that Mr Williams did so with great care, holding it in both hands rather than tucking it under an arm or swinging it about, and gently inspecting some of the pages and photos within, a soft expression on his face.</p><p>The <em>strangest</em> and most unexplainable occurrence of their new sport of folder Olympics had come when the PM had been at home, packing his suitcase at the last minute the night before he was due to fly off. Somehow, it had ended up tucked into the printed itinerary that the PM himself had made and then encased in a nice see-through wallet. There, stuffed within it, was the folder and the PM only found it when he had spread his things about on his bed to make sure everything was there.</p><p>He picked it up and swore at it, both annoyed at Mr Williams’ nerve and oddly in awe of the fact that he’d managed to slip it in there without the PM noticing.</p><p>‘Language.’</p><p>The PM looked up to see Leigh leant against the doorframe of their bedroom. ‘Who am I protecting from my language? Connor is far too old to care.’</p><p>Leigh pushed off from the doorframe and stepped into the room. ‘You’re going to be meeting the Queen in a few days,’ (he was going to be meeting the <em>Queen</em>!) ‘and it’s probably good to not swear in front of her.’</p><p>‘I’m not going to swear in front of her.’</p><p>‘How can you be sure? You can’t even control yourself when staring at an innocent, dirty looking paper folder. Who knows what will happen when you look upon the face of an ancient reigning monarch and her weird little country-man friend.’ She walked over to him and plucked the folder from him. ‘This is incredibly dirty.’</p><p>The PM hmm’d. ‘Apparently, it’s very old.’</p><p>Leigh quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’</p><p>‘Oh. Proof that that strange boy I work with is Canada.’</p><p>Leigh tilted her head in interest. ‘And you’re taking it with you?’</p><p>‘Not a chance,’ The PM took it off her. ‘I’ll be leaving that here; it should go back to the office, really, but the car is picking me up from here tomorrow and we’re going straight to the airport.’</p><p>‘Shame.’ Leigh eyed it curiously but left the topic alone to stare at the carnage on their bed, for which the PM was grateful. ‘Well, you’d best be getting a move on with this because you’re fast running out of time and if I end up packing for you, I’ll make sure to only pack your ugly ties.’</p><p>‘Please not my ugly ties.’</p><p>She kissed him. ‘All the ones with the ducks on them.’</p><hr/><p>Anything before seven am was too early. Really, anything before <em>eight</em> am was too early, but things before seven am just had that ring of hurt to them. Four am, therefore, was a torturous punishment.</p><p>But four am was the time the PM had to be out of bed and stood in his foyer waiting for the car to come and take him to Ottawa airport, where he’d be stuffed into a nice private jet with Mr Williams for eleven hours and carried off to the Old Country. Leigh wasn’t coming- not yet, anyway. The first half of the UK visit was for just the minsters and their…Mr Williamses, he supposed, and was, it seemed, more intimate. So, Leigh would be flying in for the second half where most of the political things would be happening, like the official press lunches and meetings and appearances and yadda yadda ya.</p><p>The PM was actually rather looking forward to that second bit. It was the fancy bit after all, the bit where he got to fully embrace his new role as the leader of the great country of Canada and walk amongst the world with his new identity fully on display. If he were being very honest with himself, he was embarrassingly excited about it. This first half stuff he was seeing as a lead up- a practice, something to ease him in to things. And if that practise included an odd meal with a random Lord in the middle of the English countryside with nary the British Prime Minister and Mr Williams for company well… then he would have to live with it.</p><p>It was odd, though. Very odd. Just those four people? Doing what? Talking about what? He had no idea.</p><p>It did seem to be a proper tradition though. The PM had called Mr Simmons just in case but he had confirmed that <em>yes,</em> this meal thing did happen, and <em>yes,</em> as PM he was very much expected to attend with Mr Williams. Did he want to see pictures? No, the PM most certainly did not.</p><p>Mr Williams himself, when the PM met him at four thirty am in the private lounge of the Capital’s small airport, did not look to be enjoying the hour of the day he was currently experiencing. He had a takeaway coffee in one hand, suitcase slumped at his feet, and was blearily looking at his phone with a vacant expression that spoke of someone recently and unwillingly scraped out of their house. The PM could sympathise.</p><p>‘Good morning, Mr Williams.’</p><p>Mr Williams looked up and blinked at him sleepily. ‘Good morning.’</p><p>‘Ready for the day?’</p><p>Mr Williams gave him a look that was somehow both devoid of emotion, yet also managed to clearly put across that he was displeased. ‘I’m afraid I’ve done this trip far too many times.’</p><p>‘Oh.’</p><p>Mr Williams took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. ‘That’s not to say that you shouldn’t be excited, though. Sorry, I’m being a downer; I forget how big of a thing this is for people the first time.’</p><p>‘Well,’ The PM shuffled, slightly ashamed about his euphoric glee for the trip in the face of such apathy. ‘I mean, I’ve been to the UK before but I can’t say I’ve met the Queen before; for me that’s indeed quite a big thing.’</p><p>Mr Williams gave him a small smile. ‘No, you’re very right. This is a huge moment and there’s a lot of cool stuff upcoming.’</p><p>It was very bizarre. Mr Williams would be meeting the Queen of England in a mere few days, yet he didn’t seem in the least way phased. The PM quickly filed that thought into the part of his brain that had been reserved for things Mr Williams said and did that did not make much sense and resolutely ploughed on, hoping to keep the air between them light. ‘When was the last time you visited?’</p><p>Mr Williams chewed the opening to his coffee cup thoughtfully. ‘Nearly a year, I think. I only saw Dad a few months ago, but that was in Belgium; I’ve not been to his house since last Christmas.’ (1)</p><p>The PM must have made some sort of face because Mr Williams suddenly arched an eyebrow at him. ‘You’re doing to have to get used to it, you know.’</p><p>The PM stiffened. ‘What?’</p><p>‘You know,’ Mr Williams gestured to himself, ‘the whole nationhood business. Remember, you said-‘</p><p>‘Yes yes, I remember what I said,’ the PM frowned at him, ‘But we’re not out of Canada yet.’</p><p>Mr Williams nodded, looking slightly concerned, ‘No, but if you react like that every time-‘</p><p>‘Like what?’</p><p>Mr Williams made a face, ‘Like… affronted. You looked incredibly uncomfortable which you <em>shouldn’t</em> do if you fully believed what was going on.’</p><p>The PM had to fight very hard not to roll his eyes skywards. ‘Forgive me for not knowing how to act when someone says that they consider an entire nation to be a parent.’</p><p>Mr Williams held up both of his hands in mock surrender, mindful of his coffee. ‘I’m only trying to help you out and avoid questions. These things will be picked up on, you know.’</p><p>The PM regarded him seriously. He looked, when you chose to search for it, worried, or even nervous. Which was understandable, given their last proper conversation on the subject. Mr Williams wanted to avoid questions as much as the PM did.</p><p>The PM sighed. ‘All right, I’m sorry. You make a good point, Mr Williams.’</p><p>Mr Williams gave him a look.</p><p>‘Canada. You make a good point, Canada.’</p><p>Mr Williams nodded and took another sip of coffee, hiding a wry smile. ‘Thank you.’</p><hr/><p>After far too many hours in a plane and a 10-hour long sleep in a hotel that was probably very fancy, were the PM awake enough to notice and appreciate it, the PM and Mr Williams awoke to their first day in the UK. They had flown in to Birmingham, rather than London, as Lord Kirkland’s manor lay somewhere in the lands around a small village nearby called Meriden (2). They were first to go there for dinner that evening, and then the next day they were to drive down to London where they would stay for the rest of their visit.</p><p>The morning of their arrival had mostly been spent groggily wandering about the hotel to meet with the British aides and officials who would be driving them about and keeping them company. They had discussed their itinerary and gone over the emergency procedures in place, drilling into the PM’s head what to do for each life-threatening scenario, should one be presented to him. There were, it seemed, many things that could go horrifically wrong to both his mortal person and his plans, and the PM found himself growing more concerned, rather than less, that so much had been accounted for. Who knew that the human body could be harmed with so many inane looking objects.</p><p>Mr Williams bore all of this admin with little fuss. None of the British service paid him much mind outside of a cheerful wave or a hello of greeting, and he spent these talks sat on the periphery of discussion, either writing points in his notebook or looking at things on his phone. He was dressed formally, as the PM was, but overall gave off the air of someone very relaxed and almost bored of the whole thing. It was very clear that none of what was going on was shocking to him, or interesting, in any way and no one else seemed to question what a young 20 something boy was doing silently observing the Prime Minister of Canada’s security briefings. Or, even why he was here at all.</p><p>Maybe they assumed he was his son?</p><p>That still didn’t explain Mr Williams’ nonchalant behaviour, but the PM pushed this thought aside with reckless abandon and allowed himself to get lost in the day’s proceedings. He could mull over Mr Williams later.</p><p>To be fair to Mr Williams, although he was obviously very relaxed and calm and seemed not to be paying much attention, the PM knew he very much <em>was</em>. The PM often looked up to see Mr Williams carefully listening to an emergency evacuation process, or intently making notes about exit strategies.</p><p>Unbothered the boy may be, but he was clearly taking this seriously.</p><p>All of this took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon and it was approaching the evening by the time they set out and left for dinner, (or, whatever this was going to be). Sleek, dark cars had arrived to pick them up, and the PM found himself whisked away, first down main roads and then down winding, narrow country ones; deep green countryside and rolling hills flashing passed the window.</p><p>It had seemed like an age, given how twisty and turny and <em>narrow</em> the roads soon grew to be, but eventually they passed through a large, wrought iron gate that had been left open for them. There was an old stone gatehouse there, standing watch.</p><p>It was difficult to tell whether they were actually on the estate yet, or whether they were still making their way down another country road. There were green fields or woods everywhere and no sign of any other people. Just when the PM was going to question Mr Williams, the road looped to the left and there was a clear view of a building between the trees on the other side of a small valley. (3)</p><p>‘Is that his <em>house?!</em>’ the PM pressed himself against their car window in an attempt to catch a better look.</p><p>‘Yep.’</p><p>The PM turned back to stare at Mr Williams. ‘Good God, these people are ridiculous.’</p><p>Mr Williams shrugged. ‘He’s had it for centuries, it’s grown and shrunk along the way to fit what he’s needed it for, although it is a little too big for him at the moment, if I’m honest.’</p><p>The PM shook his head. ‘That’s crazy.’</p><p>‘It’s rather small compared to some British manors still about. Even compared to some Canadian ones, really.’</p><p>‘Yes, but that,’ the PM waved a shellshocked hand in the direction of the manor, nestled amongst dark woods, ‘that is <em>excessive</em>.’</p><p>Mr Williams chuckled. ‘That is <em>original.</em>’</p><p>The car turned right and PM suddenly leant forwards and made a loud groaning noise, burying his face in his hands. ‘Okay, okay…okay.’ He straightened back up again and found Mr Williams staring at him with something akin to alarm on his face. ‘So. <em>So.</em>’</p><p>Mr Williams held out a hand briefly, as if to touch him, but dropped it back into his lap in a fist. ‘Yes?’</p><p>‘We are going to see <em>England</em>.’</p><p>‘… Yes.’</p><p>‘This man is apparently your father…yes?’</p><p>Mr Williams gave an unsure shrug. ‘Sort of? I mean, we don’t… you know, <em>reproduce</em> in the same way humans do,’ the PM stared at him bleakly, ‘but our people and cultures are related, so we’re related. And he raised me, so even from a human standpoint that counts are being a parent, to some degree.’</p><p>‘Right,’ the PM ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with his tie, ‘and the British Prime Minister will be there, and also believes this.’</p><p>Mr Williams made a helpless little movement with his hands. ‘As far as I know.’</p><p>‘And what do I do with <em>him</em>, England, how do I address him?’ Mr Williams had not briefed the PM on anything regarding this area. No one had. The man was mentioned in the itinerary, but other than that the PM still knew painfully little about what he was getting himself in to.</p><p>Mr Williams pursed his lips, displeased. ‘I really do wish you’d read the folder. It tells you everything.’</p><p>‘I am not going to read the folder.’</p><p>‘But it really would-‘</p><p>Mr Williams abruptly broke off because, just then, the car slowed to a stop. The PM flicked his head back to the window and saw that they had pulled up outside the manor at the bottom of long, stone steps, which were flanked either side by carved stone lions and well-maintained hedges.</p><p>The PM could feel himself sweating, the enormity of his first official foreign engagement as Prime Minister hitting him. He loosened his collar. ‘Jesus.’</p><p>Mr Williams shuffled closer towards him and placed his hand on the PM’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be fine, eh? Honestly, this won’t be so bad.’</p><p>‘I can’t believe this is happening.’</p><p>‘It’s fine, you’re doing great. I know you’ll be amazing.’</p><p>Mr Williams gave him a warm smile and the PM, out of nowhere, felt that yeah you know what, Mr Williams was right. He could do this; it <em>would</em> be fine. God, he felt so confident all of a sudden, like this was a perfectly normal and easy thing for a person to be doing. It was only dinner, after all. Only a nice evening meal, meeting the British Prime Minister for a nice informal chat alongside the man who was supposed to be the…country? No no, don’t think about that bit, go back to the calm feeling.</p><p>The PM took a deep breath in and nodded, turning to face Mr Williams. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’ Then, steeling himself, he reached out and opened the car door, stepping out onto the gravel drive.</p><p>A small manor it may be compared to others, but the house was still large. That was, quite simply, the easiest way to explain it. It was large and it was <em>beautiful,</em> with delicate stonework made up of carvings and statues dotted about all over the façade. The walls were broken up by numerous long windows, some of which appeared to be stained glass, that glinted in the setting sun. It was also rather odd.</p><p>It wasn’t one style, or from just one time period. It looked to be a collection of things, Georgian, Tudor, Victorian, Edwardian, all stuck onto each other. From the shape of it, it looked as though it had started out as a Tudor design but there was a newer gable that appeared about a third of the way in and carried it along into a different shape entirely. Overall, one could say that it looked more Victorian than any other era, although there seemed to be something far older about it all. It looked as though it had been here waiting and watching time creep by for years, stood apart from it all and collecting the decades like decorative trinkets.</p><p>Mr Williams, who had got out of the car and had come around to join the PM on his side, seemed just as unbothered by this as he had with every other aspect of this trip. The PM chose not to dig into this too much- he’d made a promise to Mr Williams and he fully intended to keep it. If that entailed ignoring all of Mr Williams’ odd behaviours and comments and pretending to believe that this was entirely normal for the boy, well, then he’d do it. He needed to get into the right mindset and although that mindset happened to be ‘hey of course you don’t seem amazed by all of this- you’re Canada’ the PM was fully committed to playing his role properly.</p><p>The PM was just admiring the very prettily decorated chimney stacks (4) when two people started to make their way down the stone steps.</p><p>One of them the PM recognised to be the British Prime Minister, a Mrs Irene Carter. She’d won the UK election two years before and seemed to be doing an okay job of things, from what he’d heard and read. She had similar political leanings to the PM’s own party, at any rate, and he was looking froward to getting to know her properly and hear her view on a few things.</p><p>The person who accompanied her was not who the PM had been expecting at all. Mr Williams had never given any indication as to what the ‘personification’ of England looked like, but the PM had at least expected him to look old. Or, maybe not old, but significantly older than Mr Williams. He was supposed to be England after all, the <em>Old</em> Country, and surely the older nations from Europe would be that, old. Or, old<em>er</em>.</p><p>But this man couldn’t be more than his late 20s.</p><p>He was also, the PM realised in a flash, the man from one of the photos in Mr Williams’ folder that had fallen out when he’d taken his first and only look in it. He didn’t look exactly the same, the man in the photo had still worn traces of childhood in his cheeks, whereas the man before him was clearly now fully grown. Despite that, this was irrefutably the same person- same blond hair and strong jaw, and the same sharp eyes set into an angular face.</p><p>He smiled at the PM, a slight curl of the lips and crease of the eyes, and stepped forward as host to greet him. ‘Mr Marchand, I’m delighted to meet with you.’ His voice was deeper than the PM had expected and had a rough tone to it, although his accent was as light and refined as the PM would expect of a British English Lord.</p><p>He held out a hand for the PM to shake and the PM did so, noting that Kirkland’s hands were very cool and oddly calloused- a working man's hands. The PM opened his mouth and felt, more than saw, Mr Williams staring at him, tense. This was it, whatever he said now would direct the mood of their entire evening.</p><p>It flashed through his mind, suddenly, that Mr Williams might be lying when he said that every world government believed that there were such things as national avatars. Sure, the Canadian office very clearly believed that Mr Williams was Canada, but it was such a huge leap to consider that the rest of the world had their own odd nation person. What proof had he seen that this wasn’t all part of Mr Williams’, and by extension, the rest of the office’s, delusion? What if this was, in fact, the biggest and most elaborate prank the PM had ever seen?</p><p>He thought about Mr Williams’ anxious face in the airport lobby and made a choice.</p><p>‘England, I presume; wonderful to meet you.’</p><p>Mr Williams closed his eyes in relief and let out a small breath.</p><p>It began.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(1) I love the idea of England hosting a large family Christmas every year. Not everyone goes each time, but the invitation is always there and most of the commonwealth stop by for part of it. At the very least the UK bros and Ireland always gather for a self enforced ‘family bonding’ experience.</p><p>(2) According to the internet, Meriden is the centre of England. I have a long held headcannon that each nation likes to spend most of their time, when not working in their capital, as much in the middle of all of their people as they can get. I imagine that if anywhere, this is where England would plop his big fancy manor house that he likes to stay in when parliament isn't in session.</p><p>(3) I very much based England’s estate (though, not the house- just the vast grounds) on Blenheim palace, which is <i>stunning</i>. If you’re ever in the area, I really do recommend paying it a visit. I like the idea of England really enjoying a garden, and boy if he could he’d have a big one.</p><p>(4) Tudor chimney stacks are very pretty indeed. The Tudors knew how to decorate and oh nelly did they enjoy slapping their ideas onto everything. Why have a common chimney stack when you can make it <i>swirly</i>.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lord Kirkland smiled at him, ‘Welcome to the United Kingdom. Is this your first time visiting us?’</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, the PM noticed Mrs Carter step forward to shake Mr Williams’ hand and greet him. ‘No, I’ve been to London a few times and when I was younger my family took us to Edinburgh for the summer. It’s always been fantastic,’ the PM glanced up at the house behind them, ‘speaking of fantastic, your home is truly incredible. Thank you for having us over.’</p><p>Kirkland gave a light laugh. ‘Thank you, I’m rather fond of it, I’ve had it for a while now,’ he turned towards Mr Williams who had finished greeting the UK PM and was looking over at them, ‘Canada, lovely to see you again.’</p><p>He held out his hand which Mr Williams shook. Although Kirkland was just as formal with Mr Williams as he had been with the PM his tone was noticeably fonder and his smile just that bit more genuine, reaching his eyes.</p><p>Mr Williams smiled back at him warmly. ‘Nice to be here again.’</p><p>For a moment, things became very hard to process. Because there Mr Williams was, in Britain, being referred to as Canada and shaking hands with the British Prime Minister and a random man who called himself England in front of a fancy old manor house that he was completely unimpressed by. And no one batted an eye at any of it. It was baffling, it was impossible, it was <em>crazy. </em>Because this was actually happening. The strange dream the PM had been living in since his first day in office had leaked across the Atlantic Ocean and was now puddling about his feet in Europe and making it difficult to not have a little bit of a meltdown.</p><p>Because, if one believed in any sense or reason, this couldn’t be happening, surely. They were all adults here. Okay, Mr Williams looked barely a scratch off from a child and Lord Kirkland was hardly any older, so maybe that could still be excused as another part of this odd delusion the PM was involved in. But there was Mrs Carter, a true politician the PM was himself very aware of, who was <em>also</em> involved in this strange series of events and openly participating. Mr Simmons confirming the almost cultish reality was bad enough, but having a foreign leading official also join in with this nation-person business had suddenly overloaded him.</p><p>On the other hand, it was also somewhat of a relief- at least Mr Williams hadn’t been yanking his chain about this being a worldwide thing and not just confined to the Canadian government. Horrendously ridiculous this whole thing may be, but at least it was <em>consistent</em> and Mr Williams was being truthful.</p><p>Apart from the thing about him being a nation, of course.</p><p>Repressing the urge to put himself back in the car and drive far away, the PM smoothed his face into an expression of calm acceptance as Mrs Carter came forwards to introduce herself.</p><p>‘Mr Marchand, nice to finally meet you properly.’</p><p>The PM shook her hand with genuine enthusiasm, ‘likewise, I’m greatly looking forward to talking with you about some of your recent bill proposals concerning the healthcare system improvements-‘</p><p>‘Ah,’ they both turned to look over at Kirkland who watching looking their way with an eyebrow raised, one hand held aloft to pause them, ‘I’m afraid there’s to be no work discussions this evening, there’ll be plenty enough time for that in the coming days.’</p><p>‘England, I’m sure you’re aware that NHS reforms are a core part of my personality, doesn’t that count?’</p><p>Kirkland rolled his eyes and gestured for them to begin walking up the steps. ‘As much as ferreting out a loophole is a hobby of yours, madam.’</p><p>Mrs Carter laughed and began making her way upwards, falling in step with Mr Williams and talking with him easily, leaving the PM with Kirkland.</p><p>The PM was <em>burning</em> with questions to ask her. How much did <em>she</em> believe in all of this? Obviously, she was willing to go along with it publicly, at least to this small degree as the PM himself was, but did she honestly believe that Kirkland was England just as much as the Ottawa office believed that Mr Williams was Canada? Or was she doing the same thing he was, pretending to keep up appearances? What was her ‘induction’ into this odd belief system like? Did Kirkland have some odd folder as well, or did the UK ‘nations’ have a different way of indoctrinating their government?</p><p>The PM knew he’d have to be careful about how he went about handling the subject though. He was honour bound to Mr Williams to keep his disbelief to himself and questioning the UK PM too much might accidentally expose his lack of knowledge on matters he should probably know more about by now. Not only that, but the more questions he asked the more he’d likely get in return and thus the more lies he’d have to tell to make sure she didn’t become suspicious.</p><p>Behind them, the cars were being swiftly unloaded of all of their luggage- although their security personnel would be heading back to the hotel (something that did invoke feelings of mild concern, despite the assurances from Mr Williams that England’s property was more than safe), he and Mr Williams would be staying here overnight and then making their way to London tomorrow. Judging by the size of the place, there wouldn’t be a shortage on beds and rooms and the PM hoped there would be some time allowed to himself to get to explore either the house or the grounds before they left.</p><p>The top of the steps led to a grand oak door which was opened on their approach by a footman, revealing a tantalising glimpse of the inside.</p><p>‘I like your tie.’</p><p>Kirkland’s voice brought the PM back to himself with a jolt. He stroked the material automatically, ‘Oh, thank you.’</p><p>‘What print is it?’</p><p>The PM paused, resolutely looking forwards, ‘ducks.’</p><p>‘Ducks?’ Kirkland’s inflection went up at the end, a subtle demand for elaboration that the PM couldn’t think of a way to wiggle out of.</p><p>‘Ducks with boots.’</p><p>‘Ah.’</p><p>‘Dad…’ Mr Williams turned his head to look back at them.</p><p>Kirkland raised his hands in cheerful mock surrender. ‘I’m sorry Mr Marchand, I’m only teasing. No harm, no fowl.’</p><p>Mr Williams made a noise of disgust and Kirkland’s grin turned slightly wicked. ‘You’ll have to forgive me,’ he said to the PM, ushering him in through the door first, ‘I’ve been in talks with Germany all day and I’m sinfully glad they’re over with.’</p><p>A dizzying number of questions flew through the PM’s head at once. <em>With</em> Germany the apparent representation, or the German government? Talking about government things, or other things? What did national representative have to discuss with each other?</p><p>All questions quickly shrivelled and died on his tongue as he took in his new surroundings. The entrance hall was a bright, open space, lit with delicate lights hung from a high wood-beamed ceiling. A staircase made of a dark wood curved upwards, leading to a balcony and the first floor (1). It smelt slightly old inside, like a library or a museum but lived-in at the same time, a mix of washing detergent and cooking from further within.</p><p>Kirkland waved his hand towards the stairs and began walking towards them. ‘I’ll show you to your rooms first to let you get settled in- dinner will be in an hour.’</p><hr/><p>After a moment of self-pity and existential theorising in his room (a very comfortably furnished ensuite) the PM emerged onto the landing to find Mr Williams curled up in a plump armchair by some large bay windows at the end, legs draped over the arm and scrolling through his phone. It was definitely dark outside now; the curtains were drawn over the windows and a lamp on a nearby side table bathed Mr Williams in warm, buttery light. He looked very much at home there.</p><p>As the PM approached him, he looked up and inclined his head in greeting. ‘Room alright?’</p><p>‘Certainly,’ the PM sat himself on the window seat next to the armchair and Mr Williams swung his legs forward to place his feet on the floor, ‘just as fancy as I would expect, judging by the outside.’</p><p>Mr Williams laughed, ‘you’ve not even had a look around yet.’</p><p>‘No,’ the PM conceded, ‘but if that was a guest room then I can only imagine what the rest of the place looks like.’</p><p>‘You and Mrs Carter have the <em>nice</em> guest rooms,’ Mr Williams slipped his phone into his pocket, ‘mine doesn’t have an ensuite, in any case.’</p><p>The PM frowned, almost about to ask whether that was because Mr Williams wasn’t as high of a ranking government official and becoming offended on his behalf before catching himself and stuffing the question down. ‘Canada’ said that he comes here a lot and so ‘Canada’ probably doesn’t need to be given a good first impression.</p><p>It was very difficult, keeping himself in the mindset of a delusional fool. It was a lot easier, he was finding, to keep himself fully there, rather than flip flop between the two realities.</p><p>‘Do you come here often?’ he asked him, before pushing himself further, ‘did you grow up here?’</p><p>Mr Williams shook his head, amused, ‘oh no, nothing like that. When I was younger, I used to come over and stay for long periods of time, but my land was always my home and where I spent most of my time. I do have a room here though that I use every time I visit. Some of my younger siblings have to alternate or share, but no one else uses mine.’</p><p>He looked somewhat proud of this fact and the PM wondered once again at the odd family dynamics that were at work in this nation-human fantasy. Maybe it was best not to ask and to just ingest the information as it came.</p><p>‘Ah,’ he settled on responding with, ‘that makes sense.’</p><p>Mr Williams gave him a searching look before standing up, ‘come on, I’ll give you a quick tour; show you my favourite rooms.’</p><p>He led the PM through the upper floors, architecture changing era around them as they explored the different wings. The house had a floor plan that quickly grew more unusual- long corridors that were more traditional for a modern home led to rooms that opened straight up into other rooms the deeper into the house they went, becoming more reminiscent of old manors the PM had seen in TV shows. Sometimes doors led to a corridor, sometimes to another room, and sometimes to a narrow hallway or stairway that Mr Williams explained was for the servants’ usage.</p><p>Mr Williams pointed out rooms as they went that they did not enter: his room, should the PM need him, the master bedroom, should he need Kirkland (the PM couldn’t quite think <em>why</em>), and the study. All the rest were open and were decorated in variety of different styles, ranging from a modern looking sitting room with a fat, dated TV, to luxuriously decadent room that just contained antique looking furniture.</p><p>‘He’s a bit of a pack-rat,’ Mr Williams explained as the PM’s eyes roved about the stupidly ornate ceiling, (2) ‘all of the older ones are, mostly. Me and America used to laugh at him when we were younger for keeping hold of what felt like every object that he owned no matter how out of date it was, but now I find myself doing the same sort of thing.’</p><p>He flashed the PM a quick, sad smile, ‘the older I get, the more I wanna hang on to older things from when I was younger. Especially now as everything is changing so much faster than it ever did before…’ he trailed off, walking to inspect a very old, feeble looking table more closely, ‘for the older ones of our kind, things have changed so much in their lifetimes that I’m not surprised they keep hold of as much as they can.’</p><p>The PM kept quiet, feeling as though this wasn’t something that he needed to, or should, comment on, and eventually Mr Williams perked up and moved them onwards.</p><p>All throughout their tour the walls had been just as busy as the rooms themselves. Sometimes they were taken up by the large, long windows the PM had seen from the outside but other times they were covered in paintings, photos, and once even a very old and muted tapestry that the PM was scared to stand to near lest it crumble to dust.</p><p>This all came to a head when they reached their final destination, the library. It was in a markedly older part of the house, thick timber beams exposed and bulging.</p><p>‘Oh my God.’</p><p>‘Yeah…’ Mr Williams came to stand alongside him, ‘I know.’</p><p>It wasn’t that it was the largest collection of books the PM had seen, or the most expensive looking, it was the utter <em>jumble</em> of them. The walls were lined almost solidly with bookcases stuffed with books and organised with seemingly no order at all, from what the PM could recognise at a glance. Old seemed to be meshed in with new- ancient looking leatherbound tomes sat alongside ‘modern’ paperbacks (although many of these themselves seemed to be from a good few decades ago), old cracked bindings flaking next to shiny new ones, spines unbroken. Any wall not covered by a book display was instead covered by a painting or a photo of someone, juggled about wherever there was space for them to hang.</p><p>The PM moved further into the room, floorboards creaking under him, and peered at the first bookcase he came to. He recognised many of the newer volumes on it, but the older ones were a wall of intimidating looking spines which gave no hint as to their contents.</p><p>‘Can I…?’ he hovered a hand in front of a few large spines that were bobbled with age.</p><p>Mr Williams nodded, ‘of course, just don’t drop any of the older ones. And if you see something in there leave it alone- England uses random things as bookmarks.’</p><p>The first one the PM opened contained a receipt from 1967.</p><p>The book was handwritten and the PM felt his palms grow sweaty at the idea of how old it could be, the language looked to be Old English and the chapter title page had a hand painted image of a scene from a story - these sorts of books were usually locked behind glass cases in archives and the PM didn’t feel as though he had enough training in using his hands competently to be holding it so casually. He quickly put it back and stepped away.</p><p>‘When I was younger, I used to come in here and hide in that corner,’ Mr Williams said, pointing to a spot towards the end of the room where a large oak writing desk was sat in front of expansive windows, ‘there used to be a large sofa there and I’d hide behind it and read. It was quite loud and chaotic here at times when lots of us stayed at once but the library was always somewhere you could get way to for peace and quiet.’</p><p>The PM could see the appeal. He’d never been much of a reader, or someone who really needed silence to relax, but the library had a wonderfully homey atmosphere that felt very peaceful, despite the sheer number of things in it.</p><p>‘Come on,’ Mr Williams shook his wrist out of his jacket sleeve to check the time, ‘we should start making our way down to the dining room.’</p><p>They walked back through most of the rooms they had already passed through but turned to go down a grand staircase, avoiding what was now identifiable as the guest wing. The walls running down the staircase were lined with more paintings but they were portraits this time, people in old fashioned clothes and backdrops regarding them imperiously as they passed. The PM stopped suddenly in front of one of them, recognising it.</p><p>‘That’s the painting from the photo,’ he turned to look at Mr Williams in surprise, ‘one that was inside your folder. It’s a real painting?’</p><p>Mr Williams snorted and walked back to meet him, placing his hands in his pockets, ‘of course it is.’</p><p>The PM turned back to it. As with the photo, the painting contained 3 people, two boys and a young man who the PM now knew to be Lord Kirkland. The ages weren’t right, Kirkland looked only about 5 or 6 years younger than he currently was but the young Mr Williams and the other boy looked to be around the age of 7 or 8. They were each dressed in clothing that looked to be from the 1700s, although Kirkland’s was a lot more ornate and intricate- lace cuff and collar poking out from a deep green jacket with detailed golden stitching.</p><p>‘It was painted in 1773,’ Mr Williams’ voice was soft next to him, ‘it’s one of my favourites of us three.’</p><p>An emotion that felt similar to panic fluttered in the PM’s chest. This was crazy, totally crazy. What kind of person (an apparently respectable government person like Lord Kirkland was supposed to be) would commission a <em>painting</em> of himself and two children in old fashioned period costume like this? And then <em>hang it in their hallway </em>for everyone to see? What kind of ridiculous madman did that? What an utter waste of money, and how <em>tacky</em>. Was this a British person thing? Was this sort of thing considered ‘cool’?</p><p>The PM had seen photos like this before in Canada, heck he’d even prodded and bribed his own son to pose for one when he was in preschool. But to have it <em>painted</em>?</p><p>Although…</p><p>The PM stepped closer, panic growing stronger and more defined with each passing second. The painting was <em>old</em>, very old. The paint was slightly flaking and cracked with age, the frame impressive but faded. It certainly <em>looked</em> as though it was from the 1700’s, but it couldn’t be because Mr Williams was in it and Mr Williams was <em>right there</em> next to him, a young man in his early 20’s.</p><p>There was a slight muted buzzing in his head. The PM winced slightly, stepping away and looking once again over the painting from a distance. With a better view, he was drawn in to meet the painted Mr Williams’ eyes, young and serious and unsure all at once. There was something about his face, the way he was staring out from the canvas that was hooking at something in the PM’s mind, worrying it and working it loose.</p><p>The PM took another step back, bumping the small of his back against the banister.</p><p>‘Stephen, are you alright?’ Despite his words of concern Mr Williams sounded gleeful, peering at him with eyes that shone with unconcealed excitement.</p><p>‘I-‘ the PM closed his mouth again and shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling of something inside him falling apart and coming together, ‘I don’t…’</p><p>The painted face of the younger Mr Williams gazed down at him, staring right inside him and <em>knowing</em> him in a way he’d never felt known before.</p><p>‘Sirs? I’ve been asked to come and collect you for dinner.’</p><p>A maid had approached them from the turn of the staircase below, moving up to where they stood on the landing and bobbing a curtsey. All at once the PM’s head cleared, the soft buzzing stopped and he felt focused and in control of himself again. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a breath.</p><p>‘Tabernac!’ (3)</p><p>The PM and the maid jumped at Mr Williams’ exclamation, which rang out too loud and echoey in the open stairway. He turned around and away from the PM and the maid to lean on the banister, arms bent and head looking down at the floor below. He then took a deep, long breath in and then out again through his nose before straightening up and running a hand through his hair, face too smooth and blank.</p><p>‘I’m sorry Lucy. We’re coming now.’</p><p>The maid, now identified to be called Lucy, bobbed another quick curtsey, looking chastised. ‘Of course, Sir.’</p><p>She turned and hurried down the stairs and Mr Williams looked after her forlornly, arms limply by his sides. He looked very defeated, all of a sudden.</p><p>‘Canada?’ the PM stepped towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder, the country name awkward on his tongue. Mr Williams flinched slightly at the contact, shoulder twitching. ‘Are you alright?’</p><p>Mr Williams turned and gave him a weak smile. ‘Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get going.’</p><p>With that, he began to walk down the stairs, leaving the PM to trail after him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Can you tell that ya girl likes manor houses? Because <i>oh boy</i> do I.</p><p>(1) Sorry, British reminder here- the first floor in the UK is what is the second floor in the US. The ground floor is on the bottom, and the first floor is above that.</p><p>(2) England’s house is a hodgepodge of many different country/ manor houses that I’ve visited in my time. The ceilings in particular can be wonderfully, <i>stupidly</i> fancy.</p><p>(3) Quebec, my beloved. Wonderful people, wonderful countryside, <i>wonderful</i> swearwords. This one is the worst of the bunch and it is dutifully used in times of great emotion. French from France speakers, I recommend trying it out. C'est le fun!</p><p>If anyone is interested in a more visual view of what I see when I think of England’s house, I imagine the outside to look like a mixture of Little Moreton Hall (stereotypical Tudor), Belton House (16th Century), and Knightshayes Court (Victorian). This site itself has quite a few lovely pictures of interiors too (the <i>ceilings</i>): https://www.castlesandmanorhouses.com/photos-england.htm </p><p>(I did far too much research for this but I'm not even sorry).</p><p>Thanks very much for reading! &lt;3</p>
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